


Rayleigh Scattering

by voicedimplosives



Series: Atmospheric Optics for Beginners [4]
Category: Black Panther (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Avengers Feels, BAMF Darcy Lewis, BAMF Jane Foster, F/M, Gen, Major Illness, POV Multiple, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Doctor Strange (2016), Post-Thor: The Dark World, Pre-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Romance, Sanctum Sanctorum (Marvel), Supportive Female Friendship, Wakanda, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11985726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives
Summary: Silently she reviewed all the people she was directly or indirectly connected to who had gone missing in the last few months. Bucky, Steve, Steve's Avenger friends Wanda and Sam. Agent Ipod Thief. That petty crook from California. Thor. The Hulk, although he'd been gone for years, now.Jane. Her chest heaved as she fought back the hysteria that rushed up inside her every time she considered that one. Bucky had at least given her an explanation, had left her with those three small words as consolation. Where was Jane? What had Thor done to her?





	1. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. This is the sequel to [Fata Morgana](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11967066/chapters/27062376) and [Auroral Light](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11976180/chapters/27086172). I tried as best I could to include enough background so that you can read this on its own if you want, but to fully understand what's going on I would recommend going back and reading those stories first.
> 
> Just in case anyone is getting confused, this takes place in the winter after Auroral Light, about six months after the events of Captain America: Civil War. This is the first fic in the series where I'm not writing about things that might be happening behind the scenes during the movies, but actually just kind of building my own story based on the little bit we know from the [Black Panther](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dxWvtMOGAhw&ab_channel=MarvelEntertainment) and [Thor: Ragnarok](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ue80QwXMRHg&ab_channel=MarvelEntertainment) trailers.
> 
> Finally, this fic deals with the major, life-threatening illness of a major character. I'll go ahead and spoil the ending: this person's not going to die. It's a plot point I actually took from the comics, although I haven't read them and just took the idea, interpreting it in a way I found interesting and that I thought worked for this story. But if think something like this might be upsetting for you to read and you'd like to know what you're getting yourself into beforehand, you can check out the **[SPOILERS]** Wikipedia summary [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Foster_\(comics\)) **[The plot point is in section 2.4]**. Otherwise, here's the last major installment of this story. I hope you enjoy!

Darcy Lewis was hopelessly lost. Every street she walked down looked somehow completely new and vaguely reminiscent of one she'd been on before. She'd passed open-air markets selling beans and meat and vegetables and spices. She'd seen small, hole-in-the-wall shops selling electronics and car parts, baked goods and antique tapestries, all mixed together. She'd seen high-end clothing boutiques and fancy cafes. The streets were noisy, the sounds of Wakandan and Yoruba and English ringing out as people all around her undertook the business of living their lives.

While she continued moving slowly forward down an alley, she tried desperately not to think about Jane. Abigail Foster had called Darcy just that morning, to tell her that Jane's health was not improving. Darcy looked around, back at her phone, searching desperately for a street sign. You will not cry, she instructed herself. You can not cry. You are representing the Smithsonian Museum, you are representing your country, you have a purpose for being here. She thought about the last time she'd seen Jane, laughing weakly and drinking tea in her hospital bed in New York. They'd both taken comfort in the visit, although the few hours they'd spent together before Darcy had had to leave for the airport had passed far too quickly.

And Bucky? _“I love you._ ” The words reverberated in her bones, even now, months after they'd appeared on the screen of her Starkphone.

Don't think about it right now, Darcy willed.

The cars were different here in Burnin Zana, she reflected, as she exited the alley onto a four-lane boulevard whose name she did not know. None of them seemed to be models or makes she recognized, and they emitted no fumes as they raced furiously down the busy city streets. 

She had seen more statuesque, beautiful women than she could count and the choice of fashion in Wakanda seemed to range wildly from clothes that would not look out of place in the conservative, government employee-filled neighborhoods of D.C., to some kind of scifi-inspired, Fifth Element-ish future chic, to bright, colorful patterns and even some animal skins. 

The more she looked around, the more she noticed there were shops and people and color everywhere, layered on top of each other and all thrown into shadow by the seemingly endless glass and steel sky-scrapers in every direction. As she persisted in her fruitless wandering, her senses began to overload. It was all becoming a blur to her, and after another thirty minutes of continually checking her Starkphone to try and find the street she was looking for, she gave up and hailed a passing taxi.

The driver greeted her in Wakandan, laughed heartily as she shook her head in confusion, and asked, “Where do you need to be, my friend? You look very frightened. Don't be! It's a beautiful day. My name is Ndebele, and I'm going to take you where you need to go.”

Darcy sagged into the back seat of his futuristic-looking car. She smiled at him in the rear view mirror and when he smiled back affably; she felt her confidence bolstered.

“I'm Darcy. I'm looking for the Museum of National History,” she said, “And I am so extremely late that there is a good chance I may actually be fired from my new job before I even get a chance to begin.”

“Well then Darcy,” he laughed again, shifting the gears of the car and checking his side view mirrors, “I suppose we had better be going, then!”

*

On the fifth floor of New York City's Mount Sinai Hospital, the telemetry monitor beeped softly next to the bed where Jane Foster lay dying. Jane's mother had brought her from London to Sinai on the strength of the oncology team's reputation in a desperate last bid to save her daughter. Jane had been accepted and placed in a private room, but despite the team working tirelessly to try and stabilize her, her condition had continued to worsen. 

Abigail Foster was now half laying on the bed, half sitting beside it; she was reading to her daughter in the weak January afternoon light and hoping that the story her soft, lilting voice was relating could be heard by the unconscious woman, somehow.

“You-You alone will have stars as no one else has them... In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars will be laughing when you look at the sky at night... You, only you, will have stars that can lau... lau... laugh,” her mother choked on the word, unable to continue.

“Oh, Jane. I had so wanted to read to you from The Little Prince, you really loved it very much when you were a little girl, but... I've forgotten how sad it is, there at end.” She wiped her tear-streaked face and rose to exit the room, then turned to look at her frail, wan daughter. “I shan't be a moment, darling,” she breathed, opening the door and turning in the direction of the bathroom, much in need of a tissue and a break from her debilitating grief at the sight before her.

It was a shame, however, she chose that moment to leave her daughter unattended, since she missed Jane's eyes briefly flickering open, just the slightest degree, and her raspy, whispered groan. 

“ **Heimdall**.”


	2. Found

Thor felt his spirits lifting as he stepped out the front door and descended the stairs of Sanctum Sanctorum, the New York City home of his new ally Doctor Stephen Strange. The man had agreed to help him find his father so long as he returned Loki to Asgard when they were finished the business, which of course Thor had planned to do in any case. Loki. A dangerous partner but a necessary one for this endeavor. Who is nowhere to be seen, Thor realized, as he searched the street for his adopted brother. He sighed, already growing weary of Loki's games. He called out, “Loki, reveal yourself! Come. Enough of these intrigues.”

It was at that moment that the brilliant, seething force of the Rainbrow Bridge propelled down towards him. It seemed only to take the time between one inhalation of his mighty lungs and the next, during which he was hurtling through space while immersed in a roaring cacophony of rushing light, and then he found himself on the Bifröst, staring into the golden eyes of Asgard's guardian, Heimdall.

He looked around for Loki, found himself to be alone, and roared in frustration, “What is it, man? There is much work to be done on Midgard, and no time for distractions!”

“I would not have hailed you were it not a matter of some importance, my lord,” Heimdall chided.

“Well? Speak!”

“I have been called on by another who is in need of your help,” Heimdall reported calmly. “Jane Foster lays in a house of healing, but no common Midgardian treatment can thwart the disease which consumes her. She has appealed to me in distress, and I beseech you to answer that call, as protector of Midgard... She has done much for both her realm and our own. She deserves your help... and perhaps your contrition, your majesty.”

Thor stared in amazement at the sentry while he spoke, and when he'd finished, peered out into the starry abyss that surrounded them. When he turned back, Heimdall was watching him apprehensively.

“Yes,” Thor finally answered, “So it must be. Send me to her.”

*

Infiltration of the Raft had been easy enough, even enjoyable for a strategist as skilled as Steve Rogers. Breaking out his friends, even moreso. Of course he had not resorted to killing, but he had seriously incapacitated enough of the guards and employees on the way in, using elements of surprise, stealth, and kicking people really hard, that leaving had been as simple as walking out the front door.

He'd landed his Wakandan jet atop the raft after misdirecting the air traffic controllers into bringing the prison to the ocean's surface with a false distress call. Now he ushered Sam, Wanda, Scott, and Clint up the gangway of the vehicle, flipping several switches to pull the entrance closed behind him. He took off swiftly, piloting the jet for well over an hour before he felt they were far enough away for him to safely transfer the controls to autopilot.

He stood up and turned to inspect his crew of escapees.

“Alright, everyone, listen up. I'm headed back to Wakanda. Barnes is still there and I intend to help him... somehow. I'm not asking you to go,” at this he turned pointedly to Clint, “And I won't tell you which way you oughta play this. But we've made a lot powerful enemies recently and I can't say you'll all be safe outside of Wakanda. So... the choice is yours. If you say no there'll be no hard feelings; I'll be taking you to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, where Natasha Romanoff is waiting to bring you back to the states. Those who say yes will return to Wakanda with me. Last thing, I'll just say this: I trust T'Challa, and I believe him when he says the UN and Ross can't reach us there...”

“Yeah, that's a really sweet offer, but I got Laura and the kids to think about. My place is off the grid, and if I'm even allowed back inside the house, I'm guessing she'll be thrilled to hear I'm a wanted man who can't leave my property,” Clint replied. Steve nodded. He'd hoped that Barton would lean that way.

“Gonna have to go with arrow guy on this one,” Scott threw in, “I have a kid and a girlfriend-well, kind of girlfriend, I mean... we had a lot of chemistry, it's got a lot of potenti-- what?” Scott's jabbering was interrupted when he noticed the flabbergasted expressions on the faces around him.

“You got a kid?” Sam asked dubiously.

“Yeah, man! I've told you about her, like, three times? A little girl, Cassie? She's inherited my genius--”

“We're all doomed,” Clint chipped in.

“Hey, pal!” Scott replied, “In the past year I defeated a power-hungry psycho with a flair for corporate espionage and helped Captain America do... well... whatever it was we were doing in Germany! What'd you do?”

“Enough, Lang. Sam? Choice is yours,” Steve said as neutrally as possible. He couldn't ask his friend to run away to Wakanda to help him protect Bucky Barnes, again. A man who had tried to kill Sam. Regardless of lack of the control Barnes had had over his mental faculties at the time, after his confrontation with Stark in Siberia Steve now understood that the why of it didn't always matter so much. But although he knew that Sam was not Bucky's biggest fan, he couldn't help hoping the man would agree to come along. He was a damn good wing-man to have in a fight, and one of the few people Steve truly trusted these days.

“You know where I stand, Cap. They're gonna shoot at me if I go home, and they're probably gonna shoot at me if I go to Wakanda. At least there I don't have the whole damn Joint Terrorism Task Force breathin' down my neck.”

Steve nodded, relieved, before turning finally to Wanda. Without prompting, her deep voice sounded, “Wakanda. I think I can help James Barnes. You must let me see inside his mind.”

Steve nodded again. More or less what he'd expected. “Settle in then, we'll be landing in Nova Scotia in about three hours.”

*

She was so small. She was sleeping, taking shallow, pained breaths when Thor slipped into her hospital room. He lowered himself carefully into the chair next to her bed and lifted her bony hand in his. It was cool to the touch.

“I have failed you, Jane. I know this. I have no right to ask for your forgiveness. Though I hope some day you shall see that the actions I have taken were necessary for the safety of Midgard, I have not behaved towards you as a prince or a good man should,” he murmured. He leaned in and kissed her bald scalp. 

“Though it would be perhaps a kindness to let you pass from this world and join the eternal feast at Valhalla, I cannot. Your work here is not finished.” 

Thor gently pulled down the hospital bedding then cast around until he found some clothing in a small cupboard across the room. He dressed her carefully in jeans and a sweater, shoes and socks, a thick parka. The same clothes which he remembered vividly seeing her wear while she made them coffee, as she worked on her research late into the night, as they walked along the streets of Vienna hand-in-hand. They billowed on her now, practically falling off of her emaciated frame.

“I will do right by you, Jane. I promise,” he whispered into her ear, then lifted her limp body from the bed in a bridal carry, and absconded with her into the night.

*

The managing director of the National Museum of History's public relations department, Ms. Ororo Munroe, did not like Darcy anywhere near as much as Mr. Larson did. That much was obvious and probably deserved right from the start, Darcy could acknowledge. They hadn't gotten off to a very good start, after Darcy had showed up for her first day on the job forty-five minutes late and sweating through her thin cotton blouse.

But the real clue to the woman's feelings had been when her secretary had led Darcy into the stately office where she sat typing on her computer, and Munroe had merely glanced at her with cool disinterest. After her secretary introduced them and left, closing the door behind him, Darcy stood on the luxurious, golden carpet in front of Munroe's desk awkwardly. She shifted from one blister-covered foot to the other.

“Ms. Munroe, I am so, so sorr-”

“Yes,” Munroe's voice was silky, but cold. “Sit down, please.”

She then returned to her computer, frowning critically at something then typing for several more minutes while Darcy fidgeted in her mahogany armchair. She peered around the office; floor to ceiling bookcases filled with possibly every book known to man on art, history and philosophy. One entire wall was composed entirely of tinted glass and craning her head, Darcy could see the busy streets of downtown Burnin Zana four stories below. She tried to observe the woman in front of her surreptitiously and was cowed by the beauty of her glossy white hair, her caramel-colored skin, her perfect posture, and her aura of composed, calm efficiency.

Finally, Ororo stopped typing and turned her attention to Darcy.

“Our appointment was for ten am, and now it is almost eleven. What happened, Ms. Lewis?”

“Please, uh, please call me Darcy. I'm so sorry, I had the hardest time getting the map app to work on my phone--”

“That is because Wakanda does not permit satellite observation of its territory,” Munroe interrupted.

“Oh, I... right. Well, I got horribly lost. I really am sorry, I just--”

“Yes,” Ororo held up a hand. “I understand. It must not happen again, Darcy. My time is very valuable. Come, I will show you the museum. Later we will discuss your responsibilities here.”

Rising, the woman crossed the room and opened the door without looking behind her to see if Darcy would follow. Clutching her bag and hobbling to catch up (the blister on her right heel was so painful Darcy could barely concentrate), she limped behind as they descended several flights of grand, sweeping staircases and then passed through the opulent, marble-columned front hall, into the museum.

“What do you know of Wakanda?” Ororo asked as they walked, peering at her warily.

“Oh,” Darcy wheezed, slightly out of breath from trying to keep pace with the much taller woman, “It's, uh, it's a monarchy. Well, pseudo-monarchy. The king is T'Challa. But he's also the religious leader of the country, isn't he? The-the monarchy is hereditary, T'Challa inherited the position when his father T'Chaka died this past summer."

“And, uh,” Darcy was both nervous and winded, a poor combination for trying to present her knowledge cogently, “It's had a pretty extreme isolationist foreign policy for most of its existence. Not hostile towards any country, but... not interested in helping much either. That's been changing though, with, uh, the increased exportation of Vibranium and then even more with T'Chaka's participation in the Sokovia Accords.”

They'd stopped now in a grand pentagonal hall, and on each wall there was hanging a flag. The flags had animals on them, and the largest wall directly in front of them bore a black panther on a yellow field. Glancing to the right, Darcy could see a flag bearing a white gorilla and one with a golden lion; to her left were flags with a green crocodile and an orange hyena.

“That is correct. It is very good for you, Darcy, that you did not come here today knowing nothing of this country. That would have been very disappointing. Tell me, what do you know about the religions of Wakanda?”

“I, uh,” Darcy tried to hide her breathlessness, looking around the room, “I'm sorry, I really don't know very much.”

Ororo looked at her imperiously, and nodded. “That is because Wakandans do not proselytize. Do you know what this means?”

“Of course,” Darcy answered, trying not to be offended by the question. At her visible irritation, Ororo seemed to smile slightly, as though she'd been baiting Darcy, hoping to see some hint of challenge.

“This is also good for you, Darcy. These,” waving her hand at the banners around the room, “are the religions of Wakanda. The Cult of the Panther is, of course, that of our king and of the majority of the population. But there are four other prominent sects: the destructive White Gorillas, those who worship Sekhmet the lion-goddess of the veldt, those who worship Sobek, the crocodile-god of the river, and the Hyena clan, nomadic, thieving scavengers who mostly left Wakanda long ago, although some still remain. Can you remember those?”

“Yes,” Darcy responded, turning to look at each wall and the artifacts collected from the five religions which decorated them. “I can remember.”

“Good. I am not originally Wakandan myself, but as a citizen I follow the religion of my king. I am of the Panthers.”

Darcy nodded mutely, then glanced curiously at the woman. “If... Could I ask, where are you from Ms. Munroe?”

“I was born in Kenya, but I grew up in Cairo. Come, we have more to see,” Ororo answered dispassionately. They continued passing through the many high-roofed halls of the massive building, each filled with exhibits where Darcy would have loved to linger, and their footsteps on the marble floors echoed in the cavernous space. As they walked, she spoke again, “You may call me Ororo. Perhaps my hair belies my age, but it has been this shade for... many years. I am not much older than you, Darcy.” 

Darcy turned her head sharply to assess the woman, surprised at her candidness, but Ororo had already stopped walking and begun to speak again, “This is the hall of technology. Do you know anything of Wakanda's technology?” Now she was smirking slightly, and Darcy began to feel that she was being played.

She shook her head mutely, and took in the many glasses cases full of do-hickeys and thing-a-ma-bobs. “Wakanda uses predominantly Vibranium for everything man-made which it produces. Because of the isolationist policies you spoke of earlier, the country has developed much of its technology separately from the world at large. Did you notice, perhaps, that the cars in this city are unfamiliar to you?”

“Yes,” Darcy answered, still reeling from the enormity of ingenuity and interesting design housed in the large room around them.

“They are Wakandan, and they are made with a vibranium-iron alloy. Very strong, very durable. Solar-powered. Have you heard of Komoyo beads? I don't expect you have. They are a tool the Wakandans have developed for communication and medical information storage,” at this Ororo raised her own hand, showing Darcy the bracelet, “which each citizen of Wakanda wears. I think perhaps you would be surprised at the amount of medical advancements that have been made in Wakanda, but then... the people here have chosen, for their own good reasons, not to share this knowledge with the outside world.”

Darcy was barely staying afloat, between the information Ororo was delivering and her own observations of the museum. “Is there more?” she asked, dazed.

Ororo nodded curtly, and they continued. They walked through only two more rooms, full of more technological wonders, before they entered a long, narrow hallway covered from end to end with maps.

“This is the map gallery of Wakanda. Here, where we stand, are the earliest maps ever drawn of the ancient territory, and there,” Ororo pointed to the end of the hall, about a football field's length away, “are the most recent. You will study them, and when you return to my office this afternoon, you will explain to me the shifts in the geography of Wakanda throughout its history.”

Darcy tried to keep her disbelief at the command off of her face, but Ororo noticed her widening eyes and again, the other woman broke into a small, aloof smile. Darcy nodded mutely once again and Ororo turned, walking away from the hall and calling over her shoulder, “Good luck, Darcy Lewis.”


	3. Ruined

“ _By the Seven Rings of Raggadorr...By the Dozen Rings of Munnopor...By the bonds that do beset me sore...Be now cast off – forevermore..._ ” Stephen Strange held the Book of Vishanti in his left hand, reading the incantation aloud slowly as he practiced molding his will to the words and shaping the spell in his mind. 

He raised his right hand, and channeling the energy he was summoning through his Sling Ring, he began to cast a brilliant pattern of runes into the air around him. He glanced up at the glowing manifestation, checking to see that it matched the image on the page in front of him. Satisfied with his work thus far, he was just about to move on to the next passage of the spell when he heard the light tread of footsteps one floor below. The second floor of Sanctum Sanctorum was where the living quarters were located, and Stephen, knowing that the only other tenant, Wong, had returned to the libraries of Kamar-Taj this morning, rose quickly to his feet. He turned, and called out, “Hey, Cloak. Where are you? Get over here, look alive. We've got company.”

From around the corner the Cloak of Levitation came rushing to him, wrapping itself around his shoulders and pulling him towards the descending staircase. “I know, I know,” he grumbled, “I'm going! Calm down, I don't need to be carried!”

The sorcerer passed from room to room, inspecting each methodically. They all stood silent and empty. Finally, he entered his own bedroom, where a tall, dark-haired stranger stood with his back to him. In the trespasser's hand was Stephen's battered, ancient copy of Astronomia nova, and he appeared to be reading it intently.

“You mortals and your fascination with the realms beyond your own...” At hearing the sardonic tone and glancing at the fine leather boots, then the rich deep greens and brilliant golds of the stranger's long coat, Stephen knew at once who he was dealing with. “It is so utterly _charming_ how much you yearn to better yourselves. But then, Stephen Strange, you seem to have actually accomplished that task, haven't you?”

Loki turned, snapping the book shut in one hand and returning it to its place on Stephen's nightstand.

“Loki Laufeyson,” he groaned, taking in the Asgardian's relaxed posture and smirking face.

“The very same. And you, Master Strange, or do you still prefer Doctor? You are certainly a _very_ interesting mortal.” Loki was circling him slowly, and from thin air (a pocket dimension, complex spell-work, Stephen recalled) Loki pulled a staff and then his golden, double-horned helmet, which he placed upon his head. The god looked ready to do battle and Stephen braced himself in a defensive position for whatever onslaught was coming.

“It's Doctor. What do you want, Loki? Because I know what I want. I want you to leave this place. You don't belong here, and you reek of insanity. You're stinking up my house, it's totally unacceptable.”

“I believe we can come to some agreement on that matter _Doctor_ Strange, but first I must request you relate to me the details of your congress with that brutish oaf.” Loki's eyes flashed dangerously, his voice lilting and smooth, and with a sinking certainty Stephen sensed just how voluntary his participation in that “request” would be.

“Sorry, can you be more specific? I'm a very busy man and the world is full of brutish oafs,” Stephen snapped.

Loki laughed, and it was an unpleasant, cloying sound. “Thor, son of Odin, princeling of Asgard. He has been here. Tell me what you discussed.”

“You may not have heard this Loki, but I'm kind of a big deal around here. Powerful sorcerer. Wielded the Eye of Agamotto. Defeated Dormammu?”

Loki laughed again. “Ah yes, sorcerer, I know all about your... abilities. It is quaint, that after... two years, is it? You think you could best me in the arts of spell-making. I invite you to try, but I would first remind you that long before your ancestors were even born, I mastered every incantation in the Book of Vishanti, which...” Loki tilted his head, sneering, “I believe you are still learning?"

Stephen swallowed heavily. 

“Tell me what I want to know, and I promise,” another smirk, “that I shall repay your kindness in turn when you have need.”

He nodded shakily, once, and begrudgingly began to tell Loki about Thor's search for his missing father.

*

Thor did not try to knock on the front door of Stephen's Greenwich Village townhouse but simply kicked it in, gently turning to carry Jane Foster through the threshold without disturbing her sleep. He pushed the mangled door shut behind him and hesitated, listening for signs of life from the cool, dark foyer of the sorcerer's home. Hearing a volley of voices from the floor above, he took the stairs two at a time as he called out, “Strange! Come quickly. I am in need of your counsel, and your aid!”

He reached the landing and turned, gingerly sinking to a crouch so that he could deposit Jane onto a sofa without jostling her. Standing and turning towards the direction of the voices, he started at the sight of both the sorcerer and his brother approaching.

“Loki,” he growled, “Where have you been? I was seeking you earlier.”

“Sorry to frighten you, dear brother, I was merely communing with the good doctor on our shared love of the mystical arts.” His brother smiled, evasive and disdainful as he slouched against the door jamb. He straightened when he noticed the woman laying on the sofa, an almost imperceptible look of alarm passing over his face before he corralled it to something more disaffected. “What's happened?” he asked.

Stephen made note of this response, then turned his attention to Jane. Doctor Foster, genius eccentric astrophysicist. He had admired her tenacity when he was merely a surgeon, and after learning that the limits to the universe were simply those of his own imagination, he now admired her work as well. It was horrific to see her so diminished, and he felt himself recoil from the mortality he saw in her wan, sunken face. Crossing to the couch, he took her pulse and found it weak but present. He looked back at Thor, awaiting an explanation.

“She is ill. It is... a cancer. The treatments of Midgard have failed her,” Thor explained quietly.

“And?” Stephen cried, “I'm a surgeon, not an oncologist. Does she have a tumor that needs removing?”

“It is too late for that...” Thor looked abashed.

“Then what do you expect me to do for her?” Stephen snapped at the Asgardian.

From the corner, where Loki was once again leaning with an affected insouciance, he hissed, “Magic.”

“What?” Stephen's head whipped around to regard the other brother, who was winning in a stone-faced staring contest with Thor.

“The prince of Asgard expects someone to magically solve all his problems that cannot be hammered into submission, as is his wont,” Loki answered drolly.

Thor glowered at the trickster, before turning his attention back to Stephen. “Can you?” he asked, perhaps acknowledging the truth of Loki's statement.

“I... I don't know. I can keep her alive, for a time. Can I heal her? I don't... I need to do some research. Leave her here if you have to, you can put her in one of the bedrooms so she'll be comfortable. I'm going upstairs to search through the archives, so please... just... the both of you, get out of my house,” Stephen muttered, heading in the direction of his personal library on the floor above.

*

“You will not find an answer in those books,” Loki's soft voice taunted from where he stood in the doorway.

“Didn't I invite you to get the hell out?” he responded, not looking up from the massive, leather-bound tome on the desk in front of him.

“There is not a magic in Midgard that can restore her now, _Doctor_ Strange. She is too far gone for that,” Loki continued, crossing the room and leaning on the far edge of his desk. He peeked at the incantation on the page and scoffed. Stephen slid his eyes sideways at the intruder, and Loki shook his head mockingly.

“Then why the hell do you look so satisfied?” Stephen snarled irritably.

“Because,” Loki grinned and his perfect, white teeth gleamed, “I am going to save Jane Foster's life for a second time. And in return, you are going to do something for me.”

*

Natasha was driving cautiously, doing a judicious forty-five miles per hour on the empty, two-lane backroads of upstate New York. They'd passed the border without trouble, but she had not yet stopped to let Clint and Scott out of the charcoal-lined compartment in the trunk where they were crouched.

After another hour of careful driving and an almost paranoid hyper-vigilance of her surroundings, she saw a sign for a rest stop and decided it was as safe a place as any to let the men out. She pulled the van into the very back of the parking lot, behind an eighteen-wheeler, which she hoped would effectively obscure them from all prying eyes.

Still, she looked in every direction leerily before exiting the van and walking around to the back, opening the trunk and then the compartment within. Scott sprung out immediately, stretching and groaning while Natasha reached a hand in to help Clint unfurl his body and climb out gingerly, his muscles obviously stiff from the prolonged confinement.

“Hey, we made it!” Scott cried, looking around at the dense forest that surrounded the rest stop. “Wait, where are we?”

“About an hour north of Albany,” Natasha responded, pulling off her wig and prosthetic nose, then handing the keys to Clint and climbing into the front passenger seat. Scott slid into the bench seat behind her and leaned forward, hand reaching for the radio dial. The driver's door opened and Clint's hand reached in, slapping Scott's away before climbing into the car himself and starting the engine.

“No music, and no speaking,” Clint growled. He turned to Natasha. “This bastard did not stop talking to me the entire way down from Nova Scotia. I know his whole damn life story now and I'm pretty sure I'm stupider for having heard it.”

"Hey, c'mon man!"

Natasha smirked at him, then turned with affected seriousness to glare at Scott, shaking her head. “Go to sleep, Scott,” she directed softly.

“Ma'am, yes ma'am,” he answered, closing his eyes.

*

Darcy was enjoying her free Sunday afternoon with a walk through the city park. The early February heat had abated slightly that day, and she nodded politely at neighbors and their families strolling by. She sipped on her iced hibiscus tea as she exited the park at its corner, crossing the sidewalk to mail her weekly postcard to Jane. Just as she was turning to head towards a small pond she particularly liked, her phone began to ring. She pulled it from her pocket and felt her heart sink. Abigail Foster was calling. The last time she'd heard from her was about a week ago, and she'd sounded seriously disheartened. If Abigail was calling... Darcy took a deep breath to try and fortify herself against whatever was coming, leaned against a nearby tree, then answered the phone.

“Hi, Abigail. How are you? Is everything okay?”

“Hello Darcy, yes I'm alright but... Well... I'm afraid I've got some bad news. You see, I..” Jane's mother choked, and Darcy waited quietly as the woman composed herself on the other end, “It's so ridiculous, I don't even really what to say. It's just... Jane is gone. She has been truly ailing this past week, and I simply don't think there's any way she could have left the hospital of her own volition, but then two nights ago she just went... missing.”

“...”

“I know dearie, it's unthinkable. It's beyond reason. I'm certain this is going to sound like the strangest question in the world and there doesn't seem much a chance I'll get the answer I'm hoping for, but.. you haven't, well, you haven't seen her, have you?”

Darcy felt her head swimming. She gasped, “No, Abigail, of course not. But... Wh-what happened? Do the police have any suspects? Were there any witnesses?”

“A few. Apparently her ex-boyfriend, oh what's his name? That louche who kept abandoning her? Don... Donald...”

“Donald Blake,” Darcy growled Thor's alias, the one he'd used with Jane's mother and a few others, looking off in the distance as her mind raced with possible scenarios.

“Yes, him. He was seen on camera entering the hospital wearing scrubs, and he had identification that was verified by staff. Several people saw him but apparently no one seemed to think much of a doctor checking a deathly ill young woman out of the hospital in the middle of the night. Oh, Darcy. This whole ordeal is just bizarre and cruel,” Abigail sobbed.

“Deathly...” Darcy echoed, “Abigail, I think I should come home now. I don't like the thought of you alone there, and maybe I can help look for Jane.”

“No, no you mustn't interrupt your life right now when there isn't anything to be done. Nobody has seen Blake since that night at the hospital,” Abigail argued.

“Still I could come back for, I dunno, for moral support,” Darcy offered.

“I'm staying with friends here, I'm alright. We just have to stay optimistic and trust that the police do their jobs. No, darling, there's not much we can do at the moment. Just pray for that madman to grow a conscience, realize how sick she is, and bring her back to the hospital."

“Oh, I'm praying alright,” Darcy seethed.

*

Bucky blinked against the bright white lights shining directly into his eyes as he slowly regained consciousness. His skin was cold, but when he moved to sit up he found that he had been wrapped tightly in a blanket of... tin foil? Not remembering the events that led to this development, he panicked and began thrashing to try and free himself.

“Hey, Buck, whoa. It's okay. You're safe. Breathe. Relax, pal. You're in Wakanda. You're under the protection of King T'Challa. Breathe.” Bucky's eyes finally adjusted and he saw Steve leaning over him, a heavy forearm pushing down on his chest to keep him from hurting any of the doctors standing around them. The panic surged one last time at the sight of their lab coats, but the reassuring pressure from Steve pushed it back, and Bucky began to pull in deep breaths.

“What's going on?” he asked. He knew that he wouldn't be awake unless Steve or T'Challa had found something that could help him, so his eyes slid around the room to survey its occupants.

Sam frowned back at him from a chair several feet away, then raised his hand in the slightest gesture of a wave. Bucky, still incapacitated by the blanket and Steve's restraint, merely nodded in return. The doctors, he recognized. He strained to look in the other direction, and there was Wanda, who he remembered from Leipzig, staring at him with her eerily calm expression while she played with the hem of her sleeves.

“I want to help you, James,” Wanda's accented voice replied. She approached his field of vision, and held out her hands. A red light began to writhe and grow between them and when she pulled her arms apart it stretched like a chain being pulled taut.

“Let me outta this thing, will you Steve? I'm alright. C'mon, I'm not a cabbage roll,” Bucky complained, so Steve pushed himself up and away from him, taking a step back. Bucky sat up on the lab table and freed his right arm, staring down in dismay at his missing left for a moment before remembering the events leading up to its loss.

He turned again to watch Wanda mistrustfully. “What exactly are you gonna do with those?” he asked, indicating towards the two halos of red light now swirling around each of her hands.

“I believe,” she answered softly, moving towards him with her glowing red hands held high to show she meant no harm, “that someone has been interfering with your mind. The same someone did this also to me. But now I know much about this... interfering with minds. So, James Barnes... If you allow me, I will find this... merzost... inside your mind. And... I am going to burn it out of you.”

“Will it hurt?” he asked, turning to look at Steve in alarm, who only gazed back sympathetically, and then back at Wanda's swaying, weaving hands.

“Yes,” she said gently, “Very much.”

He watched her for another full minute, sighed deeply, and lowered his chin onto his chest. From behind the curtain of his dark hair, he muttered, “Well? Get on with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you ever wanted to write a story with Doctor Strange but were like, ugh, I don't know how to write about sorcery? The internet's got you [covered](http://www.luckymojo.com/vishantivol1.html#vol1page15). So yeah, I can't take any credit for those incantations. :D
> 
>  _merzost (мерзость)_... abomination, filth


	4. Salvaged

It was on a Wednesday that Darcy decided she was making progress with Ororo Munroe. Her employer was still coolly distant yet polite towards Darcy, but she at least stopped testing Darcy unexpectedly after she had spent a particularly arduous weekend at the library memorizing King T'Challa's entire lineage, then spouted the information at Munroe for a full fifteen minutes upon entering her office on Monday morning.

No, they still weren't exactly friendly, but Ororo had clearly appreciated the gesture (as well as Darcy's consistent punctuality after her humiliating first day). Darcy split her days at the museum between two tasks. Half of her time was spent helping the two interns, Hatut and Dora, compose press releases as well as handle communications between the PR department and its international museum counterparts. The other half she spent shadowing Ororo as she met with dignitaries, arranged events, and coordinated on projects with the directors of the other national museums.

Darcy was perpetually amazed by her boss, who seemingly could not be rattled or unnerved by the endless barrage of work there was to be tackled each day. Ororo never had bad hair, she was always dressed impeccably, she never spilled coffee or food anywhere, she never made a social faux-pas or forgot anything. Darcy was not sure if it was awe or fear that incited her admiration; either way, she found herself tailing the woman quietly, trying to somehow soak up a little of her dignity and poise through osmosis. She wasn't exactly successful, but she had at least managed to stop embarrassing herself on a regular basis with how little she knew about everything in Wakanda.

Darcy looked up from the tablet, where she'd been quickly typing the last sentence Ororo had spoken to her. She was dictating an email to be sent to the ambassador of Egypt, who wanted her to host an event between Wakandan and Egyptian diplomats at the museum.

“Furthermore,” she spoke clearly and slowly enough that Darcy could keep up, “we would be delighted to offer a tour to the diplomats on the evening of Saturday, February 1st, after the museum has been closed to visitors. We can offer refreshments afterwards and the chance to socialize with both our Wakandan and international staff, as well as select public figures of note.”

Darcy raised her eyes to meet Ororo's at that. Me? She mouthed, pointing towards herself. Ororo nodded, and continued, “Thank you very much for reaching out to us and we hope to hear from you soon. Sincerely... and then you know the rest.” Darcy nodded.

“Ororo...” she began. 

“Yes?”

“I, uh, nothing,” Darcy backpedaled.

“Not nothing, Darcy,” Ororo countered firmly, now directing her full attention at the other woman. 

“I just... I don't know if I'll have much to offer these diplomats. I might just embarrass you by being there.”

“What are the five religions of Wakanda, Darcy?” 

“The black panther, the white gorilla, the river crocodile, the nomadic hyena, and the lion of the veldt,” Darcy rattled off.

“Who is the paternal grandfather of our current king?”

“Azzurri the wise, who kept the country safe and secret during World War II,” she answered, understanding slowly dawning.

“And what is the Mena Ngai? Where is it located?”

“Mena Ngai is the Great Mound, the beginning of Wakanda, it's where the first tribesmen witnessed the Vibranium meteor fall to Earth and it was their mining of the rock that helped Wakanda become the country that it is. It's located, uh... outside of Birnin Zana, to the west. Near the Forest of Solitude, I think.”

Ororo nodded her head with satisfaction. “So, Darcy Lewis, what could you possibly offer to a group of visiting dignitaries?”

Darcy laughed softly and blushed. “Thanks,” she murmured.

“Still...” Ororo tilted her head at her employee.

“Yeah?”

“It's almost time for us to break for lunch. Go eat. After you finish, I want you to visit the royal palace. Foreigners are not permitted inside, however you may observe the architecture from the grounds. Take particular note of the eighteen flags that are flown in front of the building. We are finished here for the day, but when you return, on time,” her left eyebrow raised slightly, “tomorrow, you will tell me the significance of each flag.”

Darcy nodded, accustomed by now to this kind of homework.

*

A van drove along a dirt road somewhere in central Indiana. A deep fog surrounded the vehicle, but its headlights shone through the mire enough to light the way. For the animals watching from the underbrush, the beams of light looked like two great scimitars, slicing jumpily through the silvery atmosphere all around them as the vehicle bumped over the uneven terrain slowly. The van took a left turn, then a right, heading deeper into the woods and following the trail until it narrowed to little more than two tire-ruts winding through an otherwise dense, impenetrable forest. Still it made its way several miles further; eventually the trees lessened and the van drove out onto a rolling field of damp grass. And yet it continued forward, until it was parked in front of a large farmhouse. The windows in the house glowed a soft orange and the twinkling Christmas lights on the front porch danced gently in the early evening winds.

Natasha brought them as close to the house as she dared, then pulled it into park and turned off the engine. She and Clint sat staring at his home, unwilling the break the reverence of the moment. Through the far window at the front, Clint could see Laura leaning over to lift what looked like a lasagna out of the oven with mitten-clad hands. She stood straight and inhaled deeply, then turned and walked to the balustrade where she leaned over to shout something upwards. A minute later Clint saw his laughing children running down the stairs, racing to the kitchen sink to wash their hands and splash soapy water at each other.

Not a word passed between them as they watched this, and Natasha had the good grace to pretend she didn't notice when Clint sniffled, brought his thumb up to wipe his eyes.

“You could come with us. We could still use you, Hawkeye,” she said in a hushed tone, at last.

“Nat.”

“I know,” she said, still not looking away from the scene in front of them. “Tell Laura... I never meant it to turn out how it did. I hope she doesn't hate me.”

“She doesn't. She couldn't. _We_ couldn't. You could come inside, for a while... if you wanted.”

“You know I can't. Your family, Clint...” she paused, her long eyelashes flickering in silhouette as she turned away from him to look out into the dark forest around them, “You are incredibly lucky.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Although you may be sleeping out in the barn for a while,” she teased softly.

“I can handle that. I stocked the stalls full of hay before I left and besides, anything is better than the Love Boat from Hell,” he huffed.

Her face clouded over, and she looked back to the house. “I'm sorry, Clint. I'm sorry for...”

“I know you are. If I had to do it over again I'd choose the same. Would you?”

“I don't know,” she demurred.

He sighed. “Where will you go?”

“I've got a hot date in Vegas,” she joked.

He sighed again, reached over and grabbed her hand. “Take care of yourself, Natasha.” She nodded, glancing at him then returning her gaze to the house. He opened the door and shoved himself out of the car, then turned, laughing and leaned back in towards her, “I'm sorry, too Nat. Sorry you gotta drive that idiot all the way back to California.” She smiled for real then, and rolled her eyes at him.

She sat and watched as Clint passed through the headlights. She watched him cross the slippery lawn, cutting through the fog. She watched him open the door, walk into the dining room and scare his family silly. After they'd recovered from their shock, she watched them throw themselves at him, laughing and crying ecstatically. 

She sat there, watching, even after they had disappeared into a room she could not see. 

She sat there long after the van had turned cold enough that her breath visibly drifted in the air before her and Scott's teeth began to chatter in his sleep. She sat there until the lights went off inside the house. She sat there until the fog thickened enough to swallow up the van and the headlights did not reach the house or the grass or anything else anymore, but simply illuminated two streams of shuddering wisps in the surrounding vapor. Then, and only then, did Natasha allow her heart to break, just a little, just this once.

*

When Loki returned to Sanctum Sanctorum five days later, he looked considerably worse for the wear. He had a deep, angry scar that ran from over his right eyebrow, down his face, and back behind his right ear. He was missing a chunk of hair in the back of his head. He appeared suddenly in Stephen's library; the room was simply empty one minute while the man continued his desperate search for something to help Jane and release him from his bargain, and the next... the trickster was leaning on the chair in front of his desk. Loki pulled it closer to himself, and gingerly took off his coat, unintentionally revealing in the process that his entire back had been singed by something, and then, agonizingly, he lowered himself to sit down.

Stephen watched him with bated breath, waiting to learn the outcome of his ordeal. Loki returned his gaze cryptically for a single tortuous second and then broke out in a deranged cackle.

“It is done, sorcerer. I have passed through the trials unharmed--” at this, Stephen tilted his head and nodded sarcastically, ”well, in one piece, in any matter,” Loki amended. “The wounds are of little consequence. They shall heal. I have in my possession one of the goddess Idunn's golden apples. Must I explain to you, fully, what it shall do for our ailing damsel? Or may we begin?”

Before Stephen could answer, Thor barreled into the room, his hammer raised threateningly. Despite Stephen's frequent demands that he go, he hadn't left the house since Loki had, completely intent on caring for Jane although there'd been very little for the man to do but keep vigil. He came around the desk now, taking in the sight of Loki critically, noting his burns and lacerations. He looked to Stephen, who shrugged, then back to Loki.

“Loki, what have you done?” Thor's voice rumbled fearfully, his shoulders sagging as he dropped his hands to his side.

Loki smiled, pushing himself up out of his chair with a flourish and a wince, and procured from nowhere a delicate, gleaming golden apple.

It was smaller than he thought it'd be, Stephen reflected while staring at its flawless surface. Thor convulsed, looking ill, as his attention flicked between his ne'er-do-well sibling and the fruit he held. “No...” Thor whispered, “Loki, it is unnatural. How have you come by this? It can not be. We must find another way.”

“What did you expect? All magic is unnatural, you simpering goon!” Loki roared, picking up his coat and hobbling towards the door. “Come. Now. Both of you. Let us feed the fruit to the dying girl. When the deed is finished, your time will come, _Doctor_ Strange.”

Stephen studiously avoided meeting Thor's eyes as he rose from his chair and followed the madman out the door.

*

“So, Miss Lewis, how long have you been working here with Ms. Munroe at the museum?” The Egyptian diplomat, a very friendly middle-aged woman, was sipping from her Shirley Temple as she peered around at the elegantly decorated museum hall. Darcy could not take her eyes off the woman's iridescent scarab pin; it gleamed in blues and greens and reminded her of a night that felt like a lifetime ago. Jane. Where was Jane? What was Thor doing with her? Was he going to hurt her? They hadn't ended things on the best of terms (any terms, she griped internally) but surely Thor didn't actively wish her harm...

“Miss Lewis? Are you alright?" the woman asked with concern.

“I, ah, yes, sorry. I was distracted by your lovely pin,” Darcy covered. “I've been here about, oh... actually, about a month and change. Time flies!”

“And have you enjoyed your time here so far? Do you like working for the museum?” 

“Yes, well... Yes. Of course. Ms. Munroe is very good at what she does,” Darcy answered, brushing her hands down the neatly tailored cocktail dress she was wearing and trying to keep her mind in the present even as she speculated.

“Have you had the chance to visit many places, around Wakanda?” she asked again, graciously holding up the conversation for the two of them.

“You know, I have. I've traveled a bit into the countryside and it's really beautiful. Waterfalls, jungles, great plains with roaming lions, lazy rivers full of hippopotamuses and crocodiles...” Darcy lied, meeting the kind woman's eyes and smiling with forced cheerfulness. "It's great inside the city, as well. Have you seen the royal palace?” As she took a drink of her champagne, attempting to stay grounded in the here and now, she gazed around the room at the cheerful people politely mingling, her eyes meeting Ororo's.

“It's funny you should ask me that. I was there earlier this morning. I was wondering about the flags, there's about two dozen of them in front of the entrance...”

“Eighteen,” Darcy responded absently, then re-engaged, saying, “I happen to know a bit about those flags, actually. You see, there are eighteen united tribes in Wakanda...”

Ororo was entertaining her own group of diplomats across the room, but her eyes met Darcy's once more and almost as if she could hear the subject of the other's conversation, she gave her a small nod, smiling slightly.

*

 

Tony Stark was having a... let's say, a less than great year.

He'd received a half-assed olive branch after getting wailed on by the Hardy Boys, his best friend had been paralyzed from the waist down, he'd discovered a horribly tragic secret about his already tragic past, he'd been turned down for the prom by Spiderboy, Happy had brought up the topic of retirement yet _again_ , and now Pepper Potts was standing in front of him, holding his arc welder in one hand and his face shield in the other. She was looking at him reproachfully, waiting for the answer to a question he had not been listening to.

When in doubt, redirect.

“Have I told you how fantastic you look in red?” he asked, wheeling around to pick up his smoothie off his desk and then turning back to Pepper, pushing on the ground lightly to move himself away from her. He took a long pull from his straw, gave her a once-over. “The hair is working too. New bangs? No bangs? Remind me what bangs are. Scratch that! No more talk about bangs, hair or otherwise. What were we discussing?”

“Tony, focus. I was telling you that after your little playground fight with your friends--”

“Pepper,” Tony said warningly, putting the smoothie down again.

“Fine, we won't discuss it... Now. We will, eventually, though. Anyway, that... event... left us with a rush of employee resignations, and we are now severely understaffed. It's a problem. Happy hasn't taken a vacation in months!”

“Oh yeah? Well I haven't taken a vacation in years. The guy should learn to love what he does. You know what they say, if you love what you do you'll never work a day in your life.”

“And what is it you're doing right now, Tony? Can you at least help me pick out a new assistant for you? Let's try to get that done.”

“Are you kidding me? No, what is this, am I having deja vu or something? No assistants. Last thing I need is another Natasha operating under my nose. I have you, I have Happy, and I have Dum-E,” the machine turned and beeped cheerily, “well, I have you and I have Happy. Isn't that enough for now?”

“Not if we want to keep your company running, Tony. We need to find new staff. Even _my_ assistant quit. And I gave my assistant 24-karat gold earrings for Christmas last year.”

“No, no, no. This is your problem, Pepper. I'm the mad scientist, remember? You're the powerhouse. Your company, your problem. I'm in the middle of... something important,” Tony muttered, looking down at the ugly framework of a mechanical arm laying on the table in front of him, then lunged towards Pepper, distracting her with a kiss so that he could reach around her and grab the arc welder from her hand.

He pulled back with a triumphant laugh. “Mask please, my lady? Unless you'd like me to go blind. Hear there's a new kid on the block working that angle, somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, fights crime with his face covered. Can't see! Bet I could pull that off. Friday could hack it, couldn't you girl?” Tony rambled, trying to fluster Pepper into letting him work.

“Statistical analysis shows the odds of you winning a fight while blind are not good, boss,” came the lilting, female voice. “Factoring in your difficulty receiving constructive criticism while under duress, I calculate them to be at about five thousand, eight hundred and twenty two to one.”

Tony shifted his head to look up at the ceiling in consternation, then back at Pepper. “Did you program her to do that? That was definitely not me.”

“Don't look at me,” Pepper sassed, “You're the mad scientist. I'm just the powerhouse.”


	5. Undone

Stephen shook Jane gently, and when she began to wake, he helped pull her up into a sitting position. She looked around the bedroom with extreme confusion, blinking rapidly and pulling back from Stephen in alarm. Slowly, carefully, Stephen sliced into the crisp skin of the golden apple, careful not to let any of its juice fall onto the duvet.

“Doctor Foster, my name is Doctor Stephen Strange. I...” Stephen looked behind him at Thor and then Loki, “I was asked by these men to help you. We have an apple here for you and, it's, well... it's good for you.”

“Don't lie to the lass, _Doctor_. She must consume it with full knowledge of what is to come. It is an apple of the goddess Idunn, Jane Foster, and when you have finished eating it you shall be as the Aesir are. You shall be healthy once more, and should you return to Asgard to partake of Idunn's harvest each year as shall be your right, you shall be everlasting.” Loki had delivered his reprimand as he leaned by the doorway, from which he refused to move.

“Jane, the choice is yours,” Thor glared at Loki, “Mortals do not customarily partake of the Apples. I cannot say what might happen to the human mind if replenished so many years past when it is meant to expire. Loki has taken it upon himself to retrieve this one for you, but you are free to refuse it should you so choose.”

Jane looked at both men with exhaustion, her head leaning back into her pillow and her mouth hanging open slightly in an effort to pull in more oxygen. Her eyes rolled down to the slice Stephen held extended in his hand. Even the inner flesh of the fruit shone a warm, lustrous gold. There was a long, fraught silence as she considered.

“I want...” her voice rasped out faintly, “to live. Please... I ... I don't think I can lift my arm,” Jane confessed looking down to her hands and then back to Stephen with embarrassment.

“Doctor Foster, I was once horribly injured in a car accident. My hands were completely shattered and I couldn't use them at all for months after, not properly again for years. Don't be... I'm going to feed this slice to you, okay? Just chew slowly. It's not a race,” Stephen reassured her, then turned to glare in tandem with Thor when Loki began tapping his foot.

He smirked, raised his hands in pretend innocence, and echoed, “Not a race.”

Jane chewed the first slice lethargically, swallowing only with great difficulty. The next was easier for her. On the third she asked Stephen to hand her the slice, which she fed to herself. After he'd handed her the fourth and she'd eaten the whole thing greedily, in one bite, she took the apple and the knife from him, slicing and devouring the last two pieces before finishing the core and golden stem.

Her eyes shone, and in the course of consuming the fruit, her skin had regained much of its color. The men watched silently as she sat up fully now, and threw the covers off of her legs. Thor moved to help but she held up her hand to repel him, and giving a little jump from the tall, four-poster bed, landed on the floor with ease. She looked around, rubbing her stomach absently. “I'm starving,” she whispered, awestruck.

Loki eyed her with interest, leering at her as she traversed the room, stretching her arms and whooping with joy.

“I'm... I feel...” She didn't finish her thought, just continued exploring, touching the books on the shelf, Thor's cape, flicking a stray lock of Loki's hair then pulling back before he could catch her arm.

“I'm... fast.” She grinned at him, and he gawked now with blatant interest. Thor watched the interaction sullenly.

Loki nodded down at her, then raised his head to meet Stephen's eyes. “Well?” he demanded, on edge.

Stephen's wonder at seeing the woman almost instantaneously brought back from the brink of death turned to icy dread. He'd done an unspeakably stupid thing in a desperate bid to help an innocent woman and get rid of the brothers, he could see that now. But there was no helping it.

Turning to Thor, he sighed. “I am... so sorry, Thor,” he blurted out, then without preamble he pulled his Sling Ring from his pocket, moving his hand in the necessary patterns while chanting,” _By the shades of the Seraphim – in the name of the All-Seeing Agamotto – I dispatch thee to -- the domain... of Sakaar....Let your body vanish -- and your atoms race --With the speed of thought though time... and space..._ ”

Before Thor could do much more than peer quizzically at the glowing, swirling runes in front of him he was pulled backwards in a sharp, jerking motion. “Strange! Loki! What is this conjury?!” he bellowed. He was jerked backwards again, as though some invisible line tied around his waist was tugging him towards the corner of the room, and the force of it caused him to drop Mjølnir as his arms flung out wildly in front of him. The hammer landed solidly on the dark oriental carpet with a heavy thud. A great, gaping black hole opened rapidly in the air behind him, he was pulled into the dark abyss, disappearing from sight, the hole closed with equal speed and a slight whooshing noise, and then he was gone.

“What... the... _actual_... fuck...?” Jane gasped.

*

Darcy lay in her bed, staring at the white ceiling above her and trying to lose her worries in the defiant strains of Nina Simone's growling voice. It was definitely not working.

Silently she reviewed all the people she was directly or indirectly connected to who had gone missing in the last few months. Bucky, Steve, Steve's Avenger friends Wanda and Sam. Agent Ipod Thief. That petty crook from California. Thor. The Hulk, although he'd been gone for years, now.

Jane. Her chest heaved as she fought back the hysteria that rushed up inside her every time she considered that one. Bucky had at least given her an explanation, had left her with those three small words as consolation. Where was Jane? What had Thor done to her?

She picked up her phone from the bedside stand and absently wrote her weekly email to her mother, her fingers flying across the screen even as her mind continued fruitlessly picking at the puzzle of the missing... everyone.

Finished with the email, Darcy switched over to look at her contacts. As she scrolled through the list she was struck with an idea. Without giving herself any time to second guess, she found the contact and pressed 'Call'.

“Hallå?” came the warm, deep voice on the other end.

“Erik? It's Darcy. It's been a minute, you miss me?”

“Darcy!” the man cried joyously, “How wonderful to hear from you! You know I've been meaning to call you, but my work here in Uppsala has left me with almost no time to think lately. How have you been?”

She sighed, taking comfort in the casual, friendly timbre of his voice. “I'm fine. I've been busy too, but... Have you heard about Jane?”

“Ja, min Gud, her mother called me two days ago. I was about ready to drive into Stockholm and jump on a plane at the news! It's hard to believe, isn't it? I can't even imagine what Thor must be thinking. Have you heard anything from him?”

“Nothing. From either of them. Or anyone, really. Erik, isn't there anything we can do? Someone we can call for help...?”

“I haven't got a clue. Who could even fight against Thor if he's decided... if he's turned against us?”

“Is that what you think is happening?” she asked, her voice going slightly shrill as the idea took hold of her.

“Now, Darcy, stay calm. I don't know that for certain. We shouldn't assume the worst, or the best. We have to prepare ourselves for all contingencies, right?”

“I... I don't know. I feel like I should go back to New York,” she muttered.

“And do what, Darcy? Interrogate the hospital staff? It's not as though you know...” he trailed off, and she could hear him breathing heavily.

“Erik?” she asked, but it seemed as though he were deep in thought and she could hear rustling in the background. “ _Erik_?” she tried again.

“Dir-well, former SHIELD director Fury, Darcy. I can't _believe_ I didn't think of it earlier! I worked with him on the Tesseract, and he stayed in contact after he went underground a few years ago. He recently sent me a new phone number... I've got it here somewhere...”

“Do you think he can do something?” Darcy wondered breathlessly.

“If he can't,” Erik answered, voice deepened with determination, “I don't know who can.”

*

Nick Fury was sweating his balls off. His current clothing choice of hoodie, baseball cap and dark jeans had not exactly left him well-equipped for the Nevada heat, and although the mist rising up from the Hoover Dam was helping, he was still on the verge of heat stroke. Still better than the leather duster, he conceded mentally. It had been a cool fashion choice, but God damn had that shit been unpleasant in the summer.

He did miss the eye patch though. Of all the things he thought he'd miss from his former life as director of SHIELD, the distinctive accessory had been pretty low on the list. But he missed the comforting pressure of it against the scarred skin around his bad eye, the feel of the band around his scalp keeping it secure, the renegade air it had given him. He leaned over the edge of the dam, considering the steep fall and the calm-looking water down below. Peaceful, almost. From a distance. 

Now he did not feel like a renegade, or a man in control. Now he was just a one-eyed, sunglasses-wearing nobody with an unenviable tally of enemies.

And an entire network of former employees and contacts who are still loyal to you, ready to fight for the cause, he reminded himself.

“Longing for your lost love?” Natasha teased, sidling up beside him. Nobody could sneak like Natasha could, except for maybe the Winter Soldier.

“Lost transport, maybe,” he responded, “Remember when we used to just travel by Quinjet everywhere? Do you have any idea how expensive a rental car is in Las Vegas?”

“No,” she purred, “Because I still remember how to hot-wire a Porsche.”

“You take care of Lang?”

“If you're asking me if I killed him, I'd be lying if I told you I didn't consider it... He's in a safe house in Half Moon Bay. He'll be fine if he manages to stay inside and not do anything too stupid.”

“So he's screwed, huh?”

She grimaced. “Completely.”

They began walking along the dam, in the direction of the parking lot. 

“So, are we taking my Porsche or your... rental? Can you live with yourself after committing the crime of abandoning rented property?”

“The better question is,” he said to her over the hood before ducking inside and planting himself in the passenger seat of her ostentatious sports car, “Can Jules Winnfield? Because that's who rented it, as far as the Las Vegas Hertz is concerned.”

She gave him a sly grin, turned her key in the ignition and dropped her hand to the gearshift. “Well, Colonel? Where are we headed?”

“Upstate New York,” he answered. “Got a disturbing call from an old friend this morning. It seems Thor and his demented brother are back on planet, and for some reason they've stolen Doctor Jane Foster from her hospital bed. You hear about her? Breast cancer. Awful. Been keeping tabs on her research... she was developing some very interesting theories.”

Natasha shook her head, frowning, and shifted gears as she focused on steering the car up the entrance ramp to the highway.

“So, what is Tony Stark going to do about it?” she asked, extrapolating from the destination he'd given her.

Fury sighed. “He's the only Avenger we can get to at the moment, Romanoff, and we're sort of low on powerful friends. You got a better idea?”

Her grip on the wheel tightened slightly but she said nothing, so Fury turned towards the window to watch the endless, featureless desert pass them by.

*

“So, what, we just spin our wheels in Wakanda for the rest of our lives now?”

Bucky was in a terrible mood today. Wanda's eradication of HYDRA's verbal triggers was working, but the pain of her exerting her full power on him had meant they were only able to undo the conditioning slowly, in short spells. Each time she dug those sharp red talons into his mind, they had to rest afterwards, sometimes for an entire day, as he was left weak and breathless with a headache that lasted for hours.

Steve spared him a quick, worried glance from the window, where he'd been staring out into the dense jungle that surrounded them.

Sam snorted derisively from across the room he where was in the middle of a listless game of solitaire.

“We're still working on making you not-crazy, Skywalker,” he jabbed.

Bucky stared at him, unamused. “Oh, that's funny. Because of the arm, right? Yeah, Wanda showed me the Star Wars. That's real rich comin' from you, bird brain,” he retorted, before turning his attention back to Steve. “Seriously, Steve. What exactly is the game plan here?”

Steve turned to face his friends. “We let Wanda do her thing. We don't rush this because it's important that you don't die in the process, I'm serious Buck...” he frowned at Bucky, who looked like he was about to interrupt, then continued, “And then we start figuring out how to clear our names and go home.”

“Might be easier if we had some help,” Sam threw in, “You ever hear anything back from Stark?”

Steve turned back to the window and frowned, again, at the titanic, growling panther statue which dwarfed everything in its vicinity.

“Not yet, but... I'm staying optimistic,” he said, hoping that speaking the words aloud would make them true.

*

The three of them stood tensely in the now-silent bedroom, staring at each other with apprehension. 

Finally, Stephen growled out, “We had a deal, Loki. Now's the part where you honor your end and get the hell off my planet.”

Loki was still staring at Jane. The luster had returned to her skin, her scalp shining and her eyes no longer sunken or dull. He could see already how much her body was changed from how it had been just minutes before; she was no longer gaunt or atrophied, and the muscles on her tiny frame looked more defined than he remembered from her healthier days. She filled out her jeans... wonderfully, Loki thought. She blinked her long, dark eyelashes at him, brows drawn together, turning her body towards Stephen even as she continued to stare back mistrustfully.

He turned to Stephen. “Yes, we did have an accord. You have performed for me that spell which a silly, archaic rule would not permit me to do myself, and for that I am most grateful. And yet... I have changed my mind. Hazard of doing business with me, unfortunately. It would have been wise for you to have given heed to all the nasty names they call me; lie smith, silver tongue, god of mischief and of evil. They're mostly true, you see. I am... unreliable, at best,” he grinned menacingly.

Stephen extended his Sling Ring-clad hand towards Loki, prepared to send him to the same planet as his brother. Loki's staff and horned helmet materialized instantly, and just as the were readying themselves for an inevitable clash of wills they heard a voice, both feminine and rumbling, as though a baritone and an alto were speaking in perfect unison, solemnly utter a single word, “ **Enough**.”

Slowly, they both turned to the far corner of the room, where Jane Foster held Mjølnir the war-hammer in her raised hand, the other pointed directly at Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Natasha is doomed to spend most of this fic just driving back and forth across the country.


	6. Remade

Ororo looked at Darcy appraisingly as the bespectacled woman detailed the recent back-and-forth communications with the National Museum of Art.

“What pieces do they want, exactly?” Ororo asked.

“They're hoping to borrow several of the original relics of power from each tribe. They're saying it helps support the thesis of the exhibit, that the majority of the Wakandan New Wave movement has its roots in ancestral imagery. Also, they want the ancient flags of the five cults,” Darcy read from her notes.

Ororo nodded, then turned to look out her window at the cityscape while she considered. “No, to the flags. They are not to leave my museum. Yes, to the relics of power, but tell them they need to provide additional security during their transportation across the city. The Desturi have been particularly active lately and it is possible they could try something while the relics are less guarded than normal. Obtaining them would be considered advantageous.”

Alarmed, Darcy asked, “The Desturi think they are...Do you think they really have any... uh, supernatural properties?”

Ororo turned her attention back to Darcy and simply assessed her, saying nothing. After a long, weighty pause, she asked, “Do _you_ think it's possible that they could?”

“To be honest, Ororo... I've don't count anything out anymore. You've seen my resumé, you know I interned with Doctor Jane Foster while I was at Culver? We saw things... things that once upon a time I wouldn't have believed could be possible.”

“The arrival of Thor,” Ororo provided. Now it was Darcy's turn to consider the other woman, surprise splashed across her face.

“I... yes. How do you know that? Sorry, but... I thought that was classified. I had to sign so many NDA's about that.”

“It is,” Ororo answered. “The king of Wakanda is a personal friend of mine,” she gave Darcy a minute to recover from this new information, “...and he tipped me off to that development several years ago because of its possible relevance to my other occupation. The intel was collected by PRIDE; you remember what PRIDE stands for, don't you?”

“Yeah, yes of course, PRIDE. Princess Regent Intelligence Division Executives. Wakanda's SHIELD, basically.”

“Correct. He wanted to help me prepare myself and those for whom I am responsible for the possible increase in... hostile activity.”

Darcy was truly confused now. She hesitated, unsure if Ororo was inviting her to prod further into her life. “Uh... Ororo... I'm sorry, tell me if I'm overstepping my bounds, but, um.... what people? The employees at the museum?”

Ororo shook her head, still sizing Darcy up. “No, Darcy. Directing public relations of this museum is only one of the hats I wear. The other is... more esoteric, you might say. I've been considering inviting you to see what it is I do when I'm not here for some time, and... I think you might be ready. Will you come for a drive with me, on Saturday?”

Darcy did not pretend to hide her astonishment at the idea that Ororo had time for anything besides her seemingly endless responsibilities at the museum. Or that she wanted to socialize with her outside of the working hours. After a moment, she shook her head slightly and composed herself.

“Absolutely.”

*

“Sorry to interrupt, boss, but it seems we have visitors at the perimeter. Should I let them in?” chimed the disembodied voice of Friday.

Tony pulled back from the table, where he had been testing a robotic hand for reactivity for the last three hours, and groaned. Power drill still in hand, he wheeled his chair over to the computer monitor. Over the histrionic strains of AC/DC, he shouted at Friday, “Show me!”

The monitor switched from the blueprints for a prosthetic arm to a fish-eye image of Nick Fury's scowling, sunglasses-clad face leaning out the window of a U-Haul truck. “Friday, music off. Give me audio,” Tony commanded.

“Nick, it's been a while. Love the new look, very Men in Black,” he jibed.

“Tony. Open the gate, we need to talk,” Nick responded seriously. From behind him, Tony saw Natasha lean over and wave at the camera, adding, “We come in peace, Tony. Let us in.”

Tony's head sagged, he groaned, and then he gave the order to Friday to open the gate. 

*

Ororo drove the same way she worked: flawlessly, considerately, a cool competence running through all of her actions and not a single thing done in vain. Darcy had been stunned when her boss had shown up in front of her apartment building that morning in a car that was as typically sleek and ultramodern as most Wakandan cars except for one feature... It had no wheels. The car hovered about eight inches or so off the ground and it had taken every ounce of self-restraint Darcy had in her body to keep from dropping to her hands and knees and running her arm under the car.

She had climbed in, bouncing in her seat, almost besides herself that she was riding in a flying car. Ororo had smiled, faintly, at her excitement.

“Wonderful tech, isn't it? The first of its kind was just released on the market two months ago, “ she'd murmered. 

“So not only does Wakanda have Back to the Future, Fifth Element, freaking Blade Runner scifi movie flying cars, but you're one of the first to have them?” Darcy had gushed.

“Being friends with the right people has its benefits,” Ororo had nodded, turning her attention to the road as she drove them out of the city. They'd passed an hour in companionable silence, and at some point Ororo had turned on the radio. They were listening now to the national news; Darcy frowned at the cloudless blue sky as the broadcaster reported that another public monument had been defaced by the Desturi, the xenophobic pro-isolation group who were often seen protesting in front of the royal palace.

“They won't do anything more serious than paint on a few statues, I think,” Ororo said quietly, sensing Darcy's unease.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because Wakanda is a nation of respect for the dissenting voice, for the opinions of others. There is space in the public forum for both those who want to keep the nation hidden away from the world and those who do not... but in the end, even the Desturi respect the king's decisions. If they did not, they would challenge him to combat for the crown.”

“You don't think they will?” Darcy asked, worried.

“They might, someday. They haven't yet,” Ororo reassured. She checked her rear view window, then exited off the highway at the next turn. They drove for some time more, through a small village where a mix of cutting-edge, architecturally complex houses were scattered among wooden huts over farmland.

Finally, Ororo parked the car and Darcy felt it sink gently to the ground. They were facing a tall, white building that reminded Darcy of an opera house in stature. Its graceful, inward sloping columns curved from the overhang at the roof down to a partially open-air ground floor. Manicured lawns, hedges, and orderly pathways approached and surrounded the building in every direction. Darcy opened the door and stepped out, watching in awe as a blue-skinned boy darted around the front of the building, tagged a littl girl, and then ran off in the other direction screaming with laughter as she began to give chase. 

She turned to Ororo, who smiled with genuine warmth for the first time since she'd met her, and said, “Welcome, Darcy, to the Wakandan School for Alternative Studies. We'll go inside and you can meet some of the students, but first... let's take a walk.”

She turned in the direction of the wide, perfectly-maintained gardens to the side of the house and began walking, not waiting for Darcy to catch up. When she did, Ororo asked, “That boy. Do you know what he is?”

“A... some people call them mutants,” Darcy began, “I've seen it on the news, although they're not really very, um, public in America. Their formal name is meta-humans, or enhanced humans.”

They had entered a rose garden and Ororo sat down on a stone bench, inviting Darcy to sit next to her. She did, then continued, “This is incredible. Wakanda has a school for them? What a brilliant idea. Somewhere for them to be safe.”

Ororo nodded again, peering at her intently. “They would be safe anyway, in Wakanda. We are not so suspicious of the incredible here as they are in your country. But this school offers them a nurturing environment as they learn to control the things they can do, their... abilities. This is something their parents can not always give them. And... they are around adults who are also exceptional. So they can learn not to think of themselves as something, hmm, unnatural.”

Darcy stared at the cluster of yellow roses directly in front of her. She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, took a deep breath, then asked, “So... you...”

“Darcy.”

She turned then, and jumped in shock to see that Ororo's normally dark brown, almost black irises were obscured. Her eyes were completely white, smooth and featureless as though they'd never been used for seeing at all. Ororo raised her hands slowly into the air before her, closing her eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. Darcy shivered, her skin breaking out into goosebumps as the temperature of the air dropped suddenly. She cast about, noticing that the day had grown dark, and then looked up to see heavy, grey clouds were rapidly piling up above them, blocking out the sun. A rumble of thunder crashed down around them and a single lightning bolt, lurid and jagged, flashed out across the sky.

“Oh... my... God,” she breathed. Seeing that her demonstration had made its desired impact, Ororo blinked and lowered her hands. Her eyes, once again brown and human, stayed trained on Darcy's face.

“That was... excuse my language Ororo, but that was fucking incredible,” Darcy exhaled.

Ororo nodded with satisfaction. She stood. “Come, Darcy. Let me introduce you to some of my star pupils.”

*

“Okay, I get it. You don't like the Accords, you think I made the wrong call. Anything else, or did you both just come here to henpeck me to death?” Tony snapped irritably, regretting his decision not to have Friday shoot Nick Fury and Natash Romanoff on sight.

“That's not what this is about, Stark. You made the best choice you could, I don't begrudge you that,” Nick countered, “But right now we could really use someone with Maximoff's abilities to help us find Thor and Loki, and she's not going anywhere without Rogers. And _he's_ not leaving Wakanda without Wilson and Barnes. You seein' how this works yet? Look, I saw what went down in Leipzig just like everyone else with an internet connection or a TV did. I also heard from a contact in Murmansk about your little... showdown in Siberia, plus I've watched the footage of Zeno's confession. Steve told me why you're angry. I get it, I do. But I think you should know... I worked alongside Barnes in Ukraine, for about six months.”

Tony pivoted from where he'd been looking out the window at the grounds of the Avengers compound, and squinted his eyes at Nick. “What? _You_? Really, Nick?” he spit out.

Nick sighed. “He came to us looking to help smoke out HYDRA cells. He speaks perfect Russian. It made sense. I know you don't like him. But I think you might understand where he's coming from if you'd talk to him. He did a lot of bad things in his past, without realizing it or having control over it. And he's spent the last few years trying to undo some of that bad. Sound familiar?" He stared at Tony pointedly.

Tony sank into a nearby leather sofa, bending in half to lean his arms on his legs. He rubbed his face with his hand, and looked back at Nick. “Alright! Fine. Alright, I give. So, what do you want me to do?”

Natasha cleared her throat, crossing the room to perch on the sofa next to Tony. “What we need are resources, and possibly a good lawyer.”

Tony sighed. “Let me make a couple calls.”

*

“Hello?”

“Cap? How you been? Enjoying your wacky Wakandan getaway?”

“...Tony?”

“Nailed it in one. You don't miss a step, do you? Listen, Rogers, you're on speaker. I'm here with Romanoff and Fury. So... how would you feel about burying the hatchet? What, if, say... I'd decided that I changed my mind about the Accords, and possibly about some other things?”

“Tony, listen. I—I'm glad to hear from you. And... I'm the one who needs to apologize. I know you had every reason to be angry--” 

“I did, and I still do, but... my new year's resolution was to grow as a person, so I've decided to forgive all of you. I've even decided to help you out of this pickle you've gotten yourselves into. What d'ya say to getting entangled in a long and protracted legal battle to prove your innocence?”

“...”

“Rogers? Don't leave us hanging here.”

“I'd say that sounds like a fine idea, Tony. Damn fine.”

"Language, Cap."


	7. Confused

Darcy knocked quietly on the door to Ororo's office, and then let herself in. The woman (superwoman, she reminded herself) was on the phone and waved, then indicated to the chair in front of her desk, before continuing to speak to someone. Darcy sat herself down and waited.

“Yes, Professor, I understand. Yes, I can personally account for her character. Qualifications? Well, she studied political science at Culver. She interned with Doctor Jane Foster, the-- yes," Ororo listened for a moment, nodding, “Yes, her. She's acquainted with the extraterrestrial Avenger. She's proven herself to be a very competent, hard-working employee.”

Ororo looked up from her desk, where she'd been reading something, and smiled at Darcy. “Yes. Fine. I will. Thank you Professor, I'll think you'll be pleased. Yes, you too. Goodbye.” She ended the call and set her cellphone aside.

“Darcy, what if I told you that in America there was a school similar to the Wakandan School For Alternative Studies?” she asked, tilting her head.

“I would say... um, whoa,” Darcy laughed. “I would say that's incredible, and I can't believe I've never heard of it before.”

“Perhaps, until now, that has been by design. And if I told you that I am good friends with the founder of the school?”

Darcy snorted. “I think I would wonder if there's anyone you don't know.”

“Then, Darcy, what if I were to offer you a job working for the interest of this school and its occupants as a lobbyist at the New York State Senate?”

“I—I thought I was working for you? Unless... wait, what? I don't.... I've never worked as a lobbyist before,” she sputtered.

“I see. Let me offer you one more hypothetical. Suppose that this old friend, let's say that he is Professor Charles Xavier, had spoken to me some time ago of a need for someone to work specifically for the advancement of his ideas about peaceful human and meta-human coexistence at the state level. Suppose he wanted someone who understood the mechanisms of politics but who was young enough to be idealistic, and ambitious. Suppose furthermore that I had a young, ambitious, American employee who I knew could apply herself to learn and retain information quickly, giving up her weekends in a bid to impress her demanding boss and perform in her job above and beyond the level that had been expected of her?”

“I, you, you knew I spent my wee--” Darcy started to ask.

“Yes, of course, Darcy. Now, knowing as I do the extent to which this employee would apply herself and how wasted her efforts would be in the public relations field, where anyone can work, as opposed to advocating for the rights of the... well, the extraordinary, of which there are very few qualified or interested candidates... would you suppose that I would allow the mere hiccup that she had never done it before stand in the way of directing her towards a job that could allow her to fulfill her potential and steer the conversation about meta-human rights?”

Darcy exhaled deeply, processing everything Ororo had just said. “So... this whole time, everything I've done for you here... Has this all just been a job interview?”

Ororo smiled slyly. “If it had been... would you accept the job?”

Darcy smiled back, a warm sense of elation and pride bubbling up inside of her. 

“Yes. Yes, I mean—I accept. How could I not?”

*

It had been a stupid idea to go for a walk so late at night. Darcy knew that Birnin Zana wasn't an exceptionally dangerous place, but it was still a city. Late at night was not the best time to be out and alone. But her head had been so full of all the information she'd received from Ororo that day, so excited about the future, she'd needed to find an outlet for the nervy, jittery energy she felt coursing through her body. So she'd kicked off her covers and pulled herself out of bed, grabbing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She hadn't even brought her wallet, nor her taser, just a set of keys and her StarkPod.

Walking the now familiar streets of her neighborhood, Darcy marveled at the world. She wondered if it would ever stop surprising her. First Thor, then SHIELD, then the beginning of the Avengers, the Dark Elves, Ultron, the end of the Avengers... Bucky. Now, a meta-human school in upstate New York? It was all so incredible, she felt bewildered by just how much she'd seen. And as she walked down a small side-street by her building, the snarling guitar of Jack White blocking out the world around her, she was so distracted by all her pondering that she didn't notice the man who stepped out of a dark doorway, flicked open a switch blade, and looped his arm around her neck, pulling her body back into his.

He said something, and Darcy cried, “Head phones! I can't hear you, man!” He loosened the arm to reach for the wires leading to her ears, and she ducked down then pushed herself away, breaking into a panicked run. One second her arms and legs were flapping wildly and the next something had snagged on the back of her t-shirt, using her own momentum against her as the world seemed to spin wildly until with a sharp crack, she found herself thrown to the ground against a nearby dumpster. She groaned, the air knocked out of her, and groped around for the glasses that had been flung off her face as the hyena mask-wearing man approached her.

“Heimdall,” she wheezed.

He stopped. “What?” he asked, in a deep voice that was muffled by the mask.

She desperately tried to draw in breath, then let out a pathetic wail, “HEIMDALL!” Darcy didn't even know what she was hoping for; Thor hadn't been seen in weeks. It was as much a reckless attempt to stall the inevitable as a plea for help.

So when nothing happened she was not surprised. The man stood frozen for a moment, head tilted as he watched her try to pull herself up into a sitting position against the dumpster. Then he laughed darkly and continued advancing towards her, knife extended in his hand.

“Money,” he said.

“I d—don't have any!” she shrieked, still struggling to right herself against the surface behind her.

“That's too bad for you,” he jeered.

There was the sound of roaring, rushing air like that of a cyclone opening somewhere above their heads. He looked up as Darcy continued to stare at the knife in horror. A bright light flashed from somewhere just outside the periphery of Darcy's vision.

And then he was gone. One minute there, the next minute Darcy was watching his body fly high into the air in a perfect, graceful arc. He landed about fifty feet away, and did not move. When she looked back where he had been standing, there stood a short, slender person watching her silently. A woman, Darcy realized, noting the shape of her silver breast plate, the tight black leather of her pants hugging strong thighs, and the deep, vivid red of her cape. Cape? Darcy's hand landed on her glasses and she pulled them onto her face.

The woman was striking. Short blonde hair peeked out around her ears from under the silver helmet that covered the top half of her face. Silver wings extended from somewhere on the helmet around her temples and arched into the air above her head. In her right hand she held a large, intricately carved war-hammer. Her cape flowed gently in the breeze, lightly brushing the ground at her heels. She stood still, with perfect posture, staring back at Darcy calmly. She looked like an avenging angel. She looked like a Valkyrie.

“I—Th—Thank you,” Darcy breathed as she tried again to push herself up onto her feet. The woman stepped closer and extended her hand, which Darcy grabbed onto. As she rose, Darcy noticed that despite the woman's short stature and small frame, she did not give an inch while Darcy used her for support.

Darcy bent down to brush herself off and when she stood again, she looked the woman in the eyes. They looked... familiar. Warm, gentle intelligence shone from them and the woman, seeing that Darcy was standing steadily, nodded at her.

Darcy again inspected her armor. All of the metal pieces bore intricately carvings, she could see, now that she was closer. Looking down to the hammer, Darcy gasped.

“Mew me—uh, Mjølnir?” She looked up again; the woman was smiling at her, head tilted.

“Are you... but you're a... You're not a Thor. Are you a Thor? I don't... Wait, _who are you_?”

The woman laughed, and the sound was rich, somehow both sonorous and bell-like. 

“It's good to see you, Darcy,” she said. If you had asked Darcy about this moment later, she would have sworn that her heart stopped beating and that her blood froze in her veins with shock. The voice was somehow undeniably Jane's, and also somehow not hers. Deeper, and also clearer. And yet...

“...JANE?!” she shrieked. “What? How? Why? When? Wha—what? You're not... You're okay? Where is Thor?”

The woman laughed again. “I am Thor,” she answered simply, still gazing at Darcy fondly.

“Uh, no offense, I mean don't take this personally but, like... No you're not,” Darcy countered lamely.

“Odinson is not here. He is on a journey that must be taken, to fulfill his destiny. I am fit to lift Mjølnir. I am Thor,” she reasserted, still not actually answering any of Darcy's questions, or even confirming to Darcy that she was in fact actually Jane.

Darcy panted, still reeling with shock. “Oh....kay. You're... Thor. Do you... wanna get some, uh, whi—white wine spritzer, Thor?”

The woman smiled widely at the invitation, showing her perfectly white teeth, and answered, “There is not time for me to rest, not yet. There is still much work to be done. The elders of Asgard have shared much knowledge with me but there is more I must learn before I can protect Midgard from the threats that loom. And Odin must be found. Some day, perhaps, I shall accept your offer.”

“I, okay. Well... I'm glad you're not... uh, dead, oh God, Jane! What the hell?” Darcy sighed, throwing her hands around the woman's neck and squeezing her into a hug. She felt Thor's hands come up to rest on her arms, then gently pull them off as she stepped back. She nodded once more, still smiling.

“I'm pretty sure you saved my life back there, Ja—Thor. I... that drink is on me, okay? Sooner rather than later, I hope. Thank you, uh... Thor,” Darcy heaved.

“Of course,” the woman said, swinging her hammer, then crouching as she prepared to push off the ground and fly up into the night sky, “What are friends for?”


	8. Understood

“So, Ms. Hogarth, now you know everything I know and everything Natasha Romanov has been able to find on the case. How does it look?”

Jeri looked up from the government document she'd been reading to consider Tony Stark's feigned casual stance in his chair, one hand spinning an empty coffee cup on the table between them. She liked to think she was pretty good at reading people, Kilgrave being the exception that proved the rule, and there was something about the way Stark's other hand danced across the screen of his phone that told her calm was not his prevailing emotion. She looked out the window of his private jet, took in the green plains passing below them. She looked back to him. Before she could speak, the slightly robotic voice of an Irish woman projected into the cabin, informing them that they would be landing in about fifteen minutes.

“I like our odds,” she answered at last, looking back at the document, “We have a filmed and signed confession from Zeno, plus very detailed records of Barnes' torture and behavior modification from HYDRA, which will go a long way in clearing his name. We've got enough security footage of Barnes around Bucharest from the days leading up to the attack in Vienna to show fairly conclusively that it would have been virtually impossible for him to have collaborated in any logistical measures with Zeno, or to even have been in the city to plant that bomb. We have a paper-trail here strongly indicating some very shady ulterior motives from the inciting forces of the Accords in the first place, Secretary Ross and his associates. For the others, we've got, let's see... We've got Maximoff's counselor, who's been given permission to testify to her moral understanding of the repercussions of her actions in Lagos. We've got Dr. Henry Pym, willing to serve as a character witness for Lang, which is helpful since his name carries a lot of water.

Plus, we've got a sparkling airforce record from Wilson and we're going to bring Barton and Lang's families into the courtroom, sit them front row. We might want to consider putting Wilson in his blues and Captain in the getup from the '40's. Remind the tribunal of a time when they didn't mind us throwing our might around. Visuals are always useful, Mr. Stark, even with the International Criminal Court. 

Finally, I think we've got enough witnesses willing to testify about the Battles of Manhattan, London, Sokovia, etc. to provide a strong counterargument to the idea that the Avengers are vigilantes, or are causing unnecessary damage. That will be helpful. I think we can build a fairly solid justification for the existence of the Avengers, and for their actions. The end result might be a little shaggy dog, but then so is the case against the Avengers. With a little finessing I think we can even argue the legality of the Accords themselves. So... Yes. I like our odds. The only loose end I don't like is the actions of the Hulk in South Africa. That looks bad. However, considering he's been missing since then...”

“We can't argue that he was provoked?” Stark asked.

“I think any judge worth their salt would agree his response was... excessive,” Jeri answered in a dry tone.

“Excessive? Fine, whatever. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now let's focus on the Cap and crew, right? What's our next move from here?”

“I'll need to take depositions from all of them after we land. I'll coordinate with my associate, Franklin Nelson, who will be running point for me stateside. He'll handle all of the logistics for our day in court. We'll take the whole motley crew to the Hague. They'll have to submit themselves to custody beforehand.”

Tony stood up, moved to the service counter across the aisle to brew another espresso, then thinking better of it, began preparing himself a martini instead. He raised a glass to Jeri in invitation and she shook her head. He said nothing as he shook the metal canister. After pouring its contents into the glass and sinking back down into his leather chair, he said, “They're not going back on the Raft, Hogarth.”

“No they're not,” she agreed, “It's obvious after their escape from that shithole that the level of security in the prison is meaningless, considering their abilities. I've spoken with the directors of Interpol and the Joint Terrorism Task Force, and they see the logic in my opinion that what matters is that the former Avengers turn themselves in in good faith. In essence... we'll be going on the honor code here. They promise not to break out, respect due process at The Hague, and to agree to no bail being set? The U.N. promises to respect their human rights.”

Tony nodded with relief, then a shadow of doubt passed over his face. “You ever try a case with the International Criminal Court?”

“You ever hear of Jessica Jones? Rand Corporation? I'm very good at what I do, Tony, and I have a stellar team around me to help with the particulars of international law. I assume you hired me because of my winning streak, so why don't you just trust me to do my job?”

Tony huffed, but remained silent, peering out the window anxiously. Finally, he asked, “How long's this going to take?”

“Depends on the proceedings, getting through opening motions, getting witnesses in to testify. I'd imagine somewhere between three and six months, all told. That's assuming we're successful. It could be shorter though, and it might be longer,” Jeri answered candidly.

“We're about to start descending, boss, so you might want to finish your drink and buckle up,” Friday informed the pair.

“Is your AI always that sassy?” Jeri asked.

“Actually, she's being pretty restrained today. Hey, you ever meet a king before? Nice guy, T'Challa. Little touchy about his dad, something we have in common. Don't joke around with his security detail either, they don't really _do_ humor.” Tony finished his cocktail in one swallow, tucking the glass inside a compartment in the wall before fastening his seatbelt.

“Good to know,” Jeri said lightly, buckling her own belt and closing her eyes, bracing herself for impact.

 

*

Darcy jumped when the door bell to her apartment rang, looking down at her sweaty t-shirt and track shorts, and then around the half-packed apartment. She groaned. It rang again and she stood up from where she'd been packing clothes into one of her suitcases. Moving to the door, she glanced at the small screen to its left where the live feed from the security camera outside showed Ororo Munroe staring directly into the lens.

“Hi, Ororo! One second!” she called, unbolting the door and flinging it open.

“Hi,” she began again, nervously, “Sorry. In the middle of packing up.”

Ororo nodded and stepped through the door, looking around at the mess and turning back to Darcy. “It is I am who sorry, Darcy, for interrupting. I felt it was important we speak one last time before you leave. Your flight is at ten am tomorrow, is that right?”

“Yep, that's right. And... I'm not usually this much of a mess at home, I just... I wasn't really expecting visitors,” Darcy answered sheepishly, self-conscious of her appearance in comparison to Ororo's elegant slip dress and neatly braided hair.

“Do not worry yourself about that. Of course, you are busy right now. I won't take much of your time. May I sit?”

“Oh, uh, sure! Let me just...” Darcy grabbed an armful of clothes from a nearby armchair, skipping to her bedroom to throw them on the bed and returning to her living room. “Sit, sit. Can I offer you something, some tea maybe? I have rooibos and hibiscus. Or water. Or, um, I have some whiskey in the freezer? I mean it's a little early in the day but-”

“No, Darcy, thank you. I am fine. Sit for a moment with me, please? I have never seen your place before, I like the photos of... your family, and friends, is it? It looks as though you've made the place your own.” Ororo nodded at the collage of photos taped to one wall across the room.

Darcy blushed. “Thanks, yeah. It looked better before I started packing this morning. So, um, Ororo. What can I do for you?”

“That is not what I am here for, Darcy. I am here because of what I can do for you. I am... very pleased that you have taken the lobbyist position in Albany, as is Professor Xavier. He has extended an invitation for you to come visit his school once you have settled yourself. You will be moving there in about three weeks, I believe? And in the interim?”

“Yeah, I kind of... I struck a deal with my mom, that she and my step-dad would help me move all my stuff out of D.C. and up to Albany if I would spend a couple weeks at home. I think she's missed me.” Darcy grinned self-deprecatingly. “Can't imagine why.”

“This is very good. Family is important, especially in trying times. As are friends. That is why I've come, in fact. I read... in the news. About your former employer, Doctor Foster. I had not realized she was so unwell. Do you have any idea where she could be now?”

Darcy shook her head, frowning.

“Ah. I believe from how you have spoken of her that she was more than just a colleague to you. I know something of this, the mixing of work and emotions... believe it or not. Darcy, I told you once of the Komoyo Beads. Do you remember?”

“...Yes...”

“And that Wakanda has access to many forms of medical technology and methods not available to the rest of the world.”

“Yes...” Darcy answered again, trying as always to stay afloat in Ororo's chain of thought.

“To be perfectly blunt, here in Wakanda we have found the cure for most cancers. This is not open knowledge, Darcy, so I hope you will forgive me for not sharing it with you earlier.”

There was silence in the room as Darcy stared back at the woman without blinking. Finally, she heaved in a great breath and whispered, “Oh my God. I wish I had known...”

“Why? Is it too late?”

“It's... no, not exactly but...”

“We can use PRIDE to help you find her, Darcy. And we can cure her. She is a very important person, and her work is very valuable to us all. And... I would see it as a thank you, for the work you will be doing in Albany.”

Darcy shook her head, not knowing how to explain or even if she was allowed. “She's, uh... She's not sick anymore. I don't think. I saw her. I really... I'm sorry, Ororo, I just don't know how much I can say about it. But... she's different now. She's alive though, and I mean, she's missing but she's not, like... uh, stolen. She's not exactly...”

Ororo was watching her shrewdly, brows drawn together. “There has perhaps been intervention on Doctor Foster's account by... someone else?” she asked.

“Yes!” Darcy cried in relief.

“Someone... perhaps... extra-terrestrial?” Ororo guessed again, giving her a knowing look.

“Yes,” Darcy murmured, nodding her head.

“I see,” Ororo spoke softly, a bemused smile on her face. “Should the people of Wakanda be alarmed at this development?”

“No! No. Jane is... Jane is a good person. And also, a good... whatever she is now. She's not going to hurt anyone, I promise. I think... I think she's going to help protect people,” Darcy answered nervously.

Ororo nodded, appeased. “I trust your judgment on this, Darcy. You will keep in touch with me once you begin your work in New York? I would very much appreciate being kept apprised of this situation. And if there is need for for PRIDE, or Wakandan aid...”

“You'll be the first to know, Ororo,” Darcy breathed gratefully, smiling at the woman. “Thank you so much for coming here and offering to help my friend like that. I just... Thank you. Can I... Could I hug you?” 

Ororo looked around the apartment as though checking for cameras, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Yes, you may,” she joked, “But only just this once, and please tell no one I permitted it.”

*

Stephen Strange was moping. He could hear Wong downstairs, preparing something that smelled delicious, but he was in no mood for eating or company. Stephen was not a man who enjoyed feeling as though he were outside of the loop, but he'd heard nothing from the formerly dying Jane Foster since she'd picked up Thor's hammer in his spare bedroom, thrown it directly at Loki's chest, pinning him to the floor, and called on Heimdall, after which a brilliant light had shone down into his home. When it had abated they were nowhere to be seen. The extensive burn damage to Sanctum Sanctorum, however, had been left for Stephen to deal with. He supposed that they were in Asgard now, although what exactly had happened and its ramifications eluded him. Thus the moping.

“Strange!” Wong was calling to him from below. “Put on some pants and come downstairs. You have a visitor!”

“I am wearing pants!” Strange called back obstinately, as he threw off his bathrobe and quickly pulled on a nearby pair of trousers. He moved towards the stairs and stopped, catching sight of a small, regal looking woman speaking with Wong. She was wearing a silver winged helmet, and gleaming silver armor. Her rich crimson robe seemed to wave in a breeze he could not feel, and he wandered absently if it was like his own, with a will unto itself. She looked up at him when she heard the stair creak, and Stephen inhaled deeply in shock. It was Jane Foster.

“Hello Doctor,” she said, bowing her head slightly and removing her helmet to reveal an untidy inch's worth of flaxen blonde hair on her formerly bald head. “Might you permit me an audience? We have much to say to another, I should think.” She smiled courteously then, and Stephen forgot all of his anxiety.

“Doctor Foster,” he answered, “Please. Come to the study. Let's talk.” He nodded to Wong, who looked back at the woman standing beside him with admiration, then bowed deeply before returning to the kitchen. Strange turned and walked to his library, seating himself in an armchair. She moved silently behind him, sitting gracefully in the armchair beside his then pausing to regard him.

“So, Doctor, uh...”

“Thor,” she replied.

“Doctor Thor?” he asked with confusion.

“Yes,” she answered, beaming, “That will do nicely.”

“Doctor Thor, then. What... happened? With you and Loki? After you left? That hole your rainbow bridge left in my ceiling was not cheap to fix, by the way.”

“My apologies, sorcerer. I shall repay you in gold, if you wish it. Loki has been... detained, in Asgard. Per your agreement with Odinson, which I am continuing to honor on the advice of Heimdall. He tells me that this realm you have sent him to was not a random selection.”

Stephen nodded, steepling his fingers and considering his words before answering, “I won't pretend it's not creepy that Heimdall can see all of that. Is he always watching? There are some pretty troubling ethical implications here. Like a Nordic Santa. I'm trying not to think about it but honestly he should probably ask people to sign a waiver or something. Anyway. Look, I made a deal with Loki to help save your life, but Thor and I had already discussed the fact that he would need to go to the planet Sakaar. It's where the Hulk is being kept. I felt bad about not telling him, and I've never performed that spell... on a living being before. I figured it might be better to ask forgiveness than permission."

"But why the ruse, then? Why not inform Odinson of your intentions?"

"Do you honestly think he could've given that good of a performance, one that Loki would have bought, if he knew that sending him through that black hole was helpful to his plan?" Stephen scoffed. "I was naive in thinking Loki would honor our deal, but I had to try."

Thor nodded her head. “What is the purpose of seeking the Hulk? Will he help him find Odin?” the woman wondered aloud.

“Finding Odin is important, yes, but... there is, a being let's say, on the planet Sakaar. Calls himself Grandmaster, because of course he does. He's in possession of one of the infinity stones. So I ask you Doctor Thor, which is more important? Odin or the stone?" Stephen paused, observing Thor's guarded non-reaction. "I think you know the answer to that question. Surely Heimdall has told you what's coming. Hell, I've seen what's coming and I'm not even some all-seeing peeping tom.”

She sighed. “Thanos. The Mad Titan.”

“We're going to need every single ally and tool we can get our hands on to even have a hope of standing up to him. And things don't look good on that front right now; the Avengers are mostly missing or considered criminals, Thor may or may not be able to bring the Hulk back, and even with the sorcerers doing their damndest in the Sanctum Sanctorae, well... Even then, it may very well be a lost cause. You know that, don't you?”

She smiled slightly. “That is a very dark view to take of things, Doctor.”

“You see it differently?” he asked, leaning forward and looking at her hopefully.

“Aye,” she murmured, “A month ago I was a mortal woman dying from an all-too-common human condition. I saw my fate as sealed. But I have had my life saved, for a second time, by the very Asgardian who once tried to brutalize and dominate this planet. I have been deemed worthy to wield Mjølnir. I have been granted access to the Apples of Youth. I have traveled to Asgard and conferred with the elders, who have rendered unto me the knowledge of the Aesir, so that I may protect this realm to the full extent of my ability. And I have a very powerful ally.”

“You flatter me,” Stephen answered drolly.

“I would be, were I speaking of you. I was not. I speak of Wong. He is the keeper of the ancient texts at Kalmar-Taj, is he not?”

“Wong?!” Stephen tried not to feel jealous.

“Aye, he is going to help you put into effect any protective measures for Earth which can be found in the library,” she answered, looking amused by his pique.

“Does nobody remember that I defeated Dormammu?” he whined, slumping down in his chair.

“Indeed,” she smirked, “And we all very impressed Doctor Strange. Now, I believe Wong has mentioned something about a dish from his homeland?”

Stephen sighed. “Yeah, it's phenomenal. Come on. I'll show you to the kitchen if I can try on your cape?”

She smiled brightly, and rose from her chair. “Only if you allow me to don yours.”

“Deal.”

*

The smell of chicken and dumplings was thick in the air when Darcy entered the front door of her step-father's house, and she breathed it in deeply, before shouting, “Mom! Harry! I'm home!”

Her mom walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron before grabbing Darcy and pulling her in. “My baby,” she whispered, sighing happily.

“Hi, mom,” she answered, sinking into the embrace and resting her head on her mom's shoulder. “Miss me?”

“Don't ask me silly questions, Darcy Anne,” her mom answered, sniffling slightly as she pulled back to inspect her. “You've lost weight. Didn't they feed you over there?”

“Mom, please. I literally have not even put my bag down, come on. Is there any coffee? I'm still crazy jet-lagged.”

Nodding, her mom turned and headed back into the kitchen, asking over her shoulder, “Are you hungry? There are some leftovers in the fridge. I'll fix you a coffee and some pie, how about? And then I need to hear everything about Wakanada!”

Darcy sighed, following her mom. “Wakanda, mom.”

“However you say it, I'm just glad you're back early. I was worried to death,” she replied, pouring grounds into the filter and filling the coffee pot with water. Darcy seated herself on a kitchen stool, doing a spin and enjoying the homey comfort of her mother's kitchen. “Yeah well, don't forget our deal.”

“Yes, of course, I know the deal girlie. We'll go pack you up this weekend, Harry's rented a truck and Sean's going to come along to help. Now let's talk about foods while you're home. What do you want me to make? We're having chicken and dumplings tonight, of course. Any other favorites I should bring back? Chicken parm, enchiladas?”

“Sounds good, Mom,” Darcy answered absently. She was not really listening however, as her attention had been caught by the small TV sitting on the counter across the room. The news was playing quietly, and Darcy stretched her arm to grab the remote, turning up the volume.

“Darcy Anne Lewis, I'm talking to you!”

“Just a second,” she answered, eyes riveted to the sight of the Avengers, in handcuffs, walking into a courthouse somewhere in the Netherlands. She turned the volume up higher, attention completely on the newscaster's report.

“Trial proceedings for the former Avengers continued for the second day at the International Criminal Court in The Hague today. Although no cameras have been allowed inside, courtroom artists have portrayed the accused members of the former SHIELD operation as looking solemn and focused, as can be seen here. Reports have surfaced that Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes, charged of large-scale terrorism, as well as possibly Samuel Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clinton Barton, Scott Lang, all on trial for treason and other related charges, have spent the last several months hiding in the African nation of Wakanda, which does not extradite to the U.S. or UN nations...”

Darcy gasped, dropping the remote to the floor. Her mother was staring at her in concern and turned to watch the news alongside her, her handing coming to rest on Darcy's shoulder.

She felt like she'd been hit with a ton of bricks. Or buried under it, more like. The whole time... The whole time she'd been in Wakanda, he'd been there? Right there? She could've just... taken a drive to visit him? Darcy felt the angry tears welling up before she could fight them back, spilling over, down her cheeks. She felt her mother's arm go around her, but all she could see was the TV showing a sketch of a cleaned-up, one armed Bucky.

Where was his arm?

What had happened in Leipzig?

What did he mean by letting them put him on the ice? _Did he really love her?_ She'd buried that question so deep inside herself for so many months now that the unearthing of all that raw emotion, that need and that yearning, left her shaking. She felt her mother turn her face and looking into her eyes, she couldn't hold back. She began to bawl.

“Come on, baby... hush now,” her mother murmured quietly, glancing at her compassionately before enfolding her in a surprisingly strong-armed hug. “Now now, girlie, let it out. It's alright. Breathe, Darcy.”

“Mom...” she started, then stopped, hiccuping as another wave of tears overcame her.

“I think you haven't been completely honest with me, missie,” her mother said sternly, even as she rubbed her back soothingly before grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter and wiping Darcy's face.

“I... I...” she tried again.

“Alright, alright. You calm now?” Her mother tugged on her jaw, looking at her face with worry. She nodded mutely.

“Good. Now. Darcy Anne Lewis. Tell me what's going on, and start from the beginning. I have all the time in the world, and those people obviously mean somethin' to you so no more lies, understood?”

Darcy nodded again. Haltingly, she began to tell her mother the history between her and James Buchanan Barnes, feeling the anxiety and pain ease as she continued speaking. To her surprise, her mother listened intently, nodding once or twice in understanding. When she was finished, Elaine stood up and refilled Darcy's coffee, before saying with finality, “Well. Well then. We'll just have to hope that they're found innocent, won't we? I'd hate to think I never get to meet this remarkable young man.”

Darcy nodded gratefully, sipping her coffee and taking her mother's hand when she offered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a lawyer and I am like Jon Snow in the ways of law, international or otherwise (in that I know nothing) so if the whole Hogarth/Stark conversation sounds kind of bullshitty... Uh... Hi. Sorry. I felt like I needed a little bit of a bridge, just to connect the Avengers in Wakanda to the Avengers being free, and this was my attempt to do it. If it sounds plausible-ish then awesome, totally nailed it. If it doesn't then let's just pretend that... um... this is how things work in the MCU. :D


	9. Challenged

It had not been a simple or quick path to this place, Bucky mused, as he ran his flesh hand through the prickly green blades of the Avengers facility's thick lawn. He was winded from the seventeen miles he and Steve had just run, without stopping, and he lay on his back staring at another perfect mid-summer morning sky as he recovered.

Coming back from exile had taken what felt like ages as it was happening, and now, looking back, seemed like it was the blink of an eye. Stark had flown himself and that lawyer directly to Wakanda after his peace-brokering call with Steve was finished, leaving Natasha to help Pepper re-staff Stark Industries and Nick to continue working his old contacts for signs of Thor or Loki. There'd been no word of them since the night Thor had stolen Jane from the hospital and Bucky wondered, not for the first time, how Darcy was handling the absence, wherever she was. 

He felt the now-familiar, ever-present longing for her, for her quirky smile and the way she shoved her glasses up her nose when she was making a point she thought was important, for the gap between her front teeth and the feel of her heel digging into his lower back when he did that thing with his hips that she liked. He remembered the blanket-nest she'd made for them the first day he'd barged into her life, and how she'd smiled widely and laughed like a giddy schoolgirl when he cooked for her. He sighed, sat up and looked over at Steve, who stood nearby, leaning with his hands on his thighs, panting and slightly flushed.

“Breakfast?” Bucky asked, and Steve nodded. They walked silently, both lost in their thoughts, back to the compound. They parted ways after entering, heading to their separate quarters to shower. As he tested the water and began pulling off his sweat-soaked running gear, Bucky considered the past six months.

Stark liked the king of Wakanda, they'd had a lot of time to talk during the long flight from Siberia back to Germany. He'd been happy to see T'Challa again and T'Challa had greeted him with a proper Wakandan feast upon arrival. Wanda had burned the last, lingering remnants of HYDRA's programming from his mind by then, so it had been something of a night for healing for all of them, eating and talking and remembering what it felt like to be part of a unified force again. Two days later, after they'd finished their depositions and said goodbye to their new friends, they'd all left in a Wakandan jet that had been gifted to them by the king himself. It had been an interesting move on T'Challa's part to show so much support for them during their time on the run and during the trial, and Bucky figured it had probably helped their case, as the king was a well-respected man. None of them had been particularly excited about handing themselves over to the authorities, but after a lot of discussion it had been clear that it was the only path to legitimately clearing their names.

The trial had taken months, and the incarceration had been hard for all of them. Stark had had to return stateside so that he could deliver Lang and Barton into custody as well; he'd tried to convince Natalia to turn herself over but she had maintained that she was finished playing nice with government and that she would "let history write the final verdict of her sins".

The amount of witnesses who had testified, everyone from his and Steve and Sam's old war buddies to ex-agents of SHIELD to victims of the recent Avengers skirmishes, had left Bucky reeling. Day after day he'd sat in that large courtroom, listening to people argue over the contents of his soul, of Steve's, of his new found friends'. It had been agony, but there had also been a clarifying absolution in it. He'd been able to see, with his own eyes, the good that these people had done. It had made him readier than ever to rejoin the fight once they were freed. It was easy to forget that good when confronted with the damage they'd also caused, Bucky supposed, but in the end the members of the tribunal had agreed with him.

After five months, two weeks, and three days the Accords had been deemed a flawed piece of legislation, and been nullified, and they had all been allowed to walk out of the International Criminal Court as free, exonerated men and woman. Bucky could not remember the last time he had considered himself truly free, and later that night, alone in the hotel room provided by the man whose parents he'd killed, he allowed himself to weep with relief and exhaustion.

He suspected it was Tony who had tipped off Vision that they were coming, as he was standing there on the landing strip with arms outstretched when the plane had landed at the facility. Wanda had stepped into those arms happily, and she had done no more than wave goodbye to them before she and Vision had walked off into the trees of the surrounding forest. They'd showed up... what was it? Bucky wondered. About... three days later, looking happy and smitten.

Bucky grimaced, rinsing the shampoo from his hair and turning the shower off then leaning out to grab a towel. In the past week since they'd landed, there had been a lot of Avengers quality time. They'd been on complete communications blackout the entire time they were in the Wakanda, no exceptions allowed lest someone be tipped off to their location, and similarly cut off during their time on trial, so of course Clint and Scott had left the first chance they got to visit their children. But the first thing Bucky had done when they'd legally landed on American soil was to call Darcy's old phone number. He had gotten only an automated message saying the number was no longer in use and thinking back on it now, he was slightly ashamed of how poorly he'd reacted, spending several days holed in his room wallowing.

He'd thought about asking Natalia for help but she'd avoided direct conversation with him since he'd returned with such studied persistence that he'd gotten the message, she didn't want anything to do with him, loud and clear. He'd also considered asking Fury, but the man had gone to ground as soon as he'd finished shaming Tony into bringing the Avengers back together, telling them he preferred to stay dead and get his work done from even farther behind the scenes than he used to. Bucky couldn't see too many other channels for finding her. 

Walking into the communal kitchen where Steve was busy flipping pancakes, he was interrupted from his thoughts by Tony's nasal voice calling out in an exaggerated game show host's voice, “And here's the Tin Man himself! James Buchanan Barnes, come o-o-on down!”

Bucky looked at Tony with confusion, and when he turned back to Steve he noticed the punk was smirking softly to himself, though he kept his back to both of them, saying nothing.

“What is it, Stark?” Bucky asked, cautiously.

“Wanna tell him what's he's won, Steve? Y'know what Barnes, I think you should just come see for yourself,” Tony said, rising from the stool at the kitchen island and heading towards the R&D wing of the building. Bucky didn't move.

“Steve?” he asked.

“It's okay, Buck, I'll save you a few of these. Go take a look. It'll be worth it, I promise,” his friend called over his shoulder.

Bucky sighed, turned, and followed after Stark. When he reached the lab Stark was already inside, so he turned the handle on the door and walked in, only to be slapped in the face.

But Stark was standing about two feet away. 

What?

Bucky looked down at the hand that had just made contact with his skin, noticing it was gloved. His eyes scanned along the metal-plated forearm it was attached to, following it until he looked up to see Stark grinning smugly, holding it by the bicep.

“Why y'hitting yourself?” he asked... that little shit.

*

After two months of apprenticing and three months of working independently as a lobbyist with the Meta-Human Rights Organization, Darcy had her weekend schedule down to a science. They were her days off in theory, but inevitably she still had a ton of work to do. 

Still, the morning was her time. So, on a warm Saturday in early July, she woke up, pulled on her athletic gear, and rolled out the front door. Darcy couldn't necessarily run very fast or very far, but the exercise cleared her mind and made her feel good about herself. After her near-death experience in Wakanda, she'd decided she needed to be less of a sitting duck. Mad taser skills aside, part of that plan included getting better at running.

She had just stepped out of her post-run shower when she heard a knock on the door of her apartment. “Shit,” she muttered to herself, throwing on a bath robe and wrapping her hair in a towel. She crossed her apartment and peered through the peephole, then gasped. She pulled back the chain, unlocked the door and gaped at Natasha Romanoff, standing in front of her in a pair of trendy jeans and a simple, grey cotton t-shirt. 

Natasha smiled. “Hi. You don't know me, and I only know _of_ you. I'm Natasha,” she spoke casually, leaning on one leg and peering down at Darcy's bare feet, then up her threadbare Iron Man robe to her towel-covered hair.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Uh...” Darcy answered.

“Thanks.” She gracefully slid past Darcy and into the apartment, surveying the place with interest. “Huh,” she said, “Nice place.”

“Uhh...” Darcy answered again, closing the door behind her and following Natasha into the living room, where she perched on the couch.

“You're probably wondering what I'm doing here,” Natasha said, considering for a minute and then sitting farther back on the cushion so she could lean against the back of the couch. She looked like she was attempting the pose of “relaxed” for the first time in her life in a bid to put Darcy at ease, and something about the awkwardness of it made Darcy chortle slightly, then sit in the large armchair perpendicular to the woman.

“Yeah,” she answered, finally finding her voice, “You could say that.”

“You know James Barnes. Very well,” Natasha stated plainly.

“Yes, um, we've met...” Darcy demurred, then seeing Natasha's raised eyebrow, she continued, “We're... well, friends. Or something. I don't know. I haven't heard from him in forever, I saw the news about the decision at The Hague and still nothing, a-and I don't know where he is, how to reach him. I sent Steve Rogers an email, but...”

Natasha sighed. “Rogers can be a bit of a Luddite; he rarely checks it anymore. You didn't ask Doctor Foster? Maybe she knows someone through Thor who could help?” Darcy looked askance at her, responding slowly, "Jane Foster has been... missing... for months now. I feel like you probably knew that.”

“You don't seem upset.”

“It's not really any of your business,” Darcy snapped.

“Where Foster is? It sort of is, because she disappeared with Thor and his brother Loki,” Natasha volleyed.

“You really don't have to worry about them... Uh, outta sight, outta mind, right?” Darcy stuttered. At this Natasha focused on her fully, brow furrowed, clearly mulling over her words. Then she turned her attention to the fibers of the couch, and Darcy felt as though she'd been x-rayed.

“He misses you,” Natasha noted, switching tactics.

Darcy peered at the red-headed woman's flawless skin, impeccable hair, subtly toned arms, and tried to beat back the pangs of insecurity. “Oh? Where... where is he?”

“I could take you to him, if you want,” Natasha offered.

“Why would you?” Darcy asked.

“Barnes is...” Natasha sighed, “He's a good man who was dealt a bad hand. Literally. But also metaphorically. He and I... We had something, once, when we were both much younger.” Now it was Darcy who was staring with interest and distrust. Natasha rolled her eyes and continued, “It's not like that. It's over, it never really began for us. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong... everything. Wrong us. But Barnes passes out on the floor during movie nights, something I've learned in the past week, and... he says your name in his sleep. It wasn't hard to find you. I like your Facebook profile picture, by the way.”

Darcy was still eyeing her skeptically. “Maybe I should just make an account for him, let him find you himself,” Natasha murmured, pushing herself up and off the couch.

“Will you take me to him now?” Darcy blurted out in panic.

“That was the idea,” Natasha retorted. 

“Okay, just... Let me put some clothes on.”

*

Thor swung her legs back and forth freely, taking pleasure in the simple joy of kicking them as hard as she could, something she had not done since she was a little girl when she used to sit on the dock of her grandfather's lake house, patiently following his gnarled finger as he traced the constellations in the sky above them. Her toes had just glanced the top of the water then, she remembered. The lake was often cool in the evenings, after the sun had set, but the air was cooler, and if she focused she could still feel the mist rising up around her bare feet and ankles.

It was strange, how she remembered that. It was her memory, a memory from the childhood of a woman named Jane, and yet now when she cast her mind back to that moment everything was far more vivid, louder, brighter, the smells more potent and the textures more defined. She could almost feel the warped and weathered boards of the dock under her fingertips. And at the same time, there was a disconnect from her internal emotions of the memory; it was clear as a picture but she struggled to remember who she was, what she had felt in that moment. 

And she could remember other early moments now; the beginning of time, when there was just the ice of Niflheim and the fires of Muspelheim. The birth of Odin, Vili, and Ve, screaming babes who knew only the embrace of their mother, the frost giantess Bestla. She could conjure up the look on the young Odin's bloodthirsty face as he slaughtered the frost giant Ymir and used his bones to create the mountains and spilled his blood to create the seas. In her mind, she could walk through the boisterous, joyous streets of Asgard on the day that Thor was born (the _real_ Thor, a small voice in the back of her mind heckled).

"It is not for me to judge the actions of she who carries Mjølnir, my lady, but... it would be quite the shame for you have to come all this way just to fall from the Bifröst in a moment of carelessness," came the booming voice of Heimdall from over his shoulder. Jarred from her reverie, Thor rested her hands on the glowing, shimmering surface beneath her and lifted herself up, picking up her hammer and and her helmet, then wandered into the golden dome where Heimdall stood, vigilant as ever. She came around to look him in his tawny eyes, and when he lowered them to glance at her, she felt abashed and girlish in a way she had not for many years.

"I cannot stop admiring them, Heimdall," she mused. "Has there ever been a mortal who gazed upon these constellations? Am I the first, or the last? It is as though I have stumbled upon a buffet of innumerable delights, sitting on the Bifröst and looking at this strange new sky. I can recall a me that might've brought her mortal instruments to this place; I feel even now the urge to capture their likeness and understand their secrets." 

He nodded in understanding, not taking his eyes from some distant point where he had them trained. "You might still do so, one day."

"When first I arrived here, the Aether devouring my body from within, I thought the bridge magnificent. On my second arrival, I held a secret worry in my heart that my mind was confused, and in truth I had died in that hospital. For surely standing in this place, gazing upon this scene for all time, would have been a kind of paradise for she who was Jane Foster. This bridge... The Bifröst... I used to call this edifice by another name. Einstein–Rosen. Which is it now to me, I wonder?" she asked in a hushed tone.

"It is both, my lady. You must walk along the thread between two lives now," Heimdall replied. "The elders have finished imparting the knowledge of the Aesir to you, have they not?"

Thor nodded, following Heimdall's gaze to the endless, inky expanse beyond the dome. "They have shown me all that I will need, I believe."

"Then why do you linger, your grace?" the sentry inquired. "Should you not return to Midgard, and enact your guardianship?"

"Aye, Heimdall, your rebuke is well deserved." Thor dipped her head in acknowledgement, but she remained motionless beside him.

"Perhaps there is something you fear on Midgard?" he urged. The corners of her mouth turned up faintly, and she looked at him with admiration.

"You see even more than they credit to you, guardian," she whispered. "I fear their disappointment. I fear my own. I am not now what I was then. What if my mother should see me thusly, an Asgardian warrior? Would she know my face? And my friends? When Thor returns, shall he take Mjølnir from me? Who shall I be then? Not Jane, and not Thor, but some eternal creature without home or kin? And what if I should fail in my mission, fail those who were my people?" She spoke calmly, her voice wobbled only slightly, but her eyes were shining as she returned her gaze to the heavens surrounding them. "These stars cannot hurt me. I cannot mean anything to them, and they care not what they are to me." She sniffed sadly, and did not look at Heimdall's face though she finished speaking.

"Ah. No, it shall not be easy, little Aesir, to follow the thread the Norns have chosen for you. But they have woven you into this great tapestry for a reason. You must try to take heart in this, and remember that you could not wield Mjølnir if you were not worthy of its weight." As he spoke, his eyes drifted towards some voice that Thor could not hear, and she silently reflected on his advice while she waited for him to continue. But when his attention returned to her, he said simply, "You have been called for, your grace, by one whom I believe you worry most about."

She looked to the stars for another moment, thinking, and then asked in a small voice, "Darcy?"

He nodded, sliding his eyes to meet hers once more. "Come, Thor. Embark upon your path. I believe you may do much for your friend; it is time for you to assuage her fears, and for her to assuage yours."

*

When Darcy trailed behind Natasha into the communal lounge of the Avengers facility, she was not ready for the immediate, awkward silence as twelve pairs of eyes landed on her. Sam had paused mid-bite of his sandwich, Vision, from his place on the couch, slowly lowered his hands from Wanda's hair, which he had been braiding as she sat on the floor in front of him, Steve paused mid-thumb wrestling war with Tony, and Bucky... Bucky was walking towards her.

And then Bucky was taking her bicep in his hand, and then she was plastered against his body.

And then Bucky was holding her, so steadily, by the waist, bending over to curl his body around hers and sinking one hand into her hair. They just looked, for one immaculate moment. Darcy reflected that at this point gawking at each and feeling half-crazed with lust or passion or whatever this was... it was kind of their thing. But she needed more than that, so she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and tugged lightly. Then his soft, warm lips touched hers. This was not a wild kiss, although she felt her heartbeat react that way. This was something tender, and warm, and healing.

So Darcy leaned further up into the embrace, releasing all the angst of the past four years of her life, letting go of Wakanda and Jane and her mom and Harry and Professor Xavier and everything. She dug her knuckles into the thick muscles of his back and simply allowed herself to be a sensory creature, being made to feel precious by the man she had loved for years. She felt his tongue brush her lower lip, and sighed contentedly into his mouth.

Finally, they both pulled back, and although the kiss could easily be described by their onlookers as chaste, Bucky looked like a man intoxicated. 

“Hi,” Darcy offered.

“Howdy,” he said back in a low, deep voice.

“Uh, who's this? What's going on? Does somebody want to explain what's happening right now?” Tony cried from his chair, before standing to walk over and grab Darcy by the shoulder.

“Do I know you? You look familiar,” he said suspiciously.

“You don't know her, Stark,” Bucky grunted.

“Okay, whoa, hi Mr. Stark, I'm Darcy. I'm...” she paused.

“She works for the Smithsonian,” Steve piped up, trying to be helpful.

“Not anymore,” Natasha jumped in, “she lobbies for a meta-human rights organization in Albany now. She and Bucky have... history.” Natasha winked at her and she thought maybe the superspy lady wasn't so scary after all.

“Damn right we do,” Darcy beamed up at Bucky, who was smiling woozily at her.

“Also, she knows Thor,” Wanda added casually, then winced, “Sorry. You did not say that out loud.” Sam and Vision's expressions shifted, looking at her curiously.

“You know where he is now?” Sam prodded.

“Um,” Darcy replied, then stopped, looking around at all of the people waiting expectantly, “Kind of.”

“And?” prompted Vision, gently, “You are among friends here, Miss Lewis.”

“Thor, well... Thor's, uh... different,” Darcy tried.

“Gonna need a little better than that, Short Stack,” came Tony's dry rejoinder from the kitchen, where he had begun shelling pistachios and throwing them into his mouth.

Darcy looked around again, inhaled deeply. She grabbed Bucky's hand. “HEIMDALL!” she shouted. 

As with the last time she'd done this, many months ago, silence followed.

Then Sam said gently, “Actually, we're looking for Thor? You know, big blonde guy? Ran off with your friend?”

“Heimdall is the guardian of Asgard and the Bifröst,” Vision offered. 

Darcy noticed that Steve was peering at her with open curiosity now. "I don't know if that will work, but... It's nice to see you Darcy,” he smiled.

“Yeah, same, Captain Rogers. Steve. Oh my God, if my dad could see me now,” Darcy said in wonder, looking between him and Bucky. “I think he'd just about pass out from envy.”

“We're an enviable bunch!” Tony cried. “Now, who wants—“

But he did not get a chance to complete that thought, because at that moment there was a roaring sound of something moving through the air unnervingly fast and far too close to the roof above their heads. The entire group craned their necks, following the noise to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the other end of the lounge, where they saw the bright, kaleidoscopic light of the Bifröst rain down upon Tony Stark's magnificent lawn. When the light dissolved, only a short, slender woman remained crouching on the scorched grass. She was dressed in her winged nasal helmet, her silver breast plate and a long crimson cape which flowed gracefully from her shoulders, and she rolled Mjølnir around in her palm with ease. She rose, and turned to her audience, who were once again staring in silence.

Darcy gave a little wave, and after a second's pause, the woman gave a slight wave back.

Darcy suddenly heard something odd and turning, she saw Steve was fidgeting and panting slightly, with an agitated look on his face. “Who's... who's that?” he asked, breathlessly.

*

Thor had waited patiently while the entire sundry group spilled out onto the lawn. She smiled at Darcy, and bowed her head regally, then asked, “You called for me?”

Her voice rang out in the air, unanswered. It was Wanda who first realized it, dipping into the stranger's mind and then inhaling sharply before muttering, “She is... Thor.” Darcy nodded.

Natasha squinted her eyes. “This is Jane Foster,” she said with certainty. Darcy nodded again.

Bucky looked down at Darcy with consternation, and she in turn was surveying the group leerily. “Let's split the difference and say she's both?” She shrugged with attempted indifference.

“I am Thor,” the woman began, “I was Jane. I remain Jane. It is...”

“Complicated?” Tony quipped. “Alright listen; Jane, Thor, Hägar the Horrible, whoever you are... where is Thor? ThorThor. You know, the one that's six foot four with a golden beard?”

“Ah, you speak of Odinson. He has been exiled from this realm by the sorcerer of Sanctum Sanctorum, Doctor Strange. He continues his quest to find his father and the Hulk on the distant planet of Sakaar. He is unharmed, Heimdall keeps his vigil.”

Darcy struggled with the two-toned quality of the voice, the changed manner of speaking of the woman who had been her friend and confidante for years. The voice was Jane's, and yet not. But her face and figure were still clearly Jane, although she looked... stronger. It was a good look, JaneThor was rocking it, but still she felt a spike of fear at the thought that this change would be forever.

“So... will you ever just be just Jane, and not, uh, Thor—Jane, again?” she asked.

“Much depends on how Odinson fares in his journey. It is too early to say,” she replied, smiling gently as though she were trying to soften the news. Still, she kept her stately, stiff posture and made no attempt to embrace Darcy, as the old Jane would have. Darcy bit her lip to keep herself from crying at the loss, and leaned into Bucky's side when she felt his arm wrap around her shoulders.

“Fascinating,” Vision hummed, approaching Thor and looking down at her cape, “I have no great eye for fashion, but I must say... I think the cape looks better on _you_ , your majesty.”

Clearly amused by this compliment, Thor grinned smugly and bowed her head deeply towards him.

“Hell, maybe we should all get capes,” Tony muttered.

“Capes don't work with wings,” Sam countered.

“They're not great with metal arms either,” Bucky added.

“How do we know that's really Thor's hammer?” asked Natasha.

Thor, still smiling, responded, “Only one who is worthy to rule may wield it. Would you care to try?” She extended the hammer towards Natasha, who shook her head.

“Not me, I still don't need that question answered... Tony should, though,” Natasha smirked. Tony sighed at this, rolled his shirtsleeves up, and strutted forward. 

“Alright, Xena, hand it over.”

Thor gracefully lowered the hammer to the ground and took a step back, watching Tony expectantly. He leaned over and proceeded to embarrass himself with a full minute of red-faced groaning and tugging after which he popped up, shouting, “Okay! She's Thor. I can officially verify that somehow this tiny woman is Thor. And now I think I need a drink, anyone else?” With that, he stomped back inside the facility.

Steve had yet to say anything. He was breathing slowly, as though it required his complete attention for him to remember to do so, and his eyes had not left the Norse goddess once. He rasped, “Let me try.”

He walked forward, and after adjusting his grip on the hammer nervously several times, he glanced up at Thor, then dragged it six inches across the lawn. He rose panting, with a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. Thor fluttered her eyelashes at him, smiled coyly, and walked forward to reclaim the hammer.

“Perhaps one day you shall be called upon to serve as Thor,” she teased, “But for now I shall retain the title.”

“That's... good. That's good,” Steve stuttered. “Maybe you should stay, with us. We could use your help. With.... HYDRA.” It sounded lame even to Steve's ears as soon as he'd said it. Darcy snorted softly and Bucky looked down at her, rolling his eyes and smiling crookedly.

“I cannot intervene in these earthly quarrels,” Thor said, “I am the protector of Midgard; I must defend it against those who should harm it from abroad but beyond that I can do no more.”

“What about the stone?” Natasha proposed. “The one in Vision's head.”

“Can he not protect himself?” Thor asked, turning to where the android stood with one hand on Wanda's shoulder. “I was told that he was able to lift the great Mjølnir.”

“Does that mean that he's Thor?” asked Sam, frowning slightly in confusion.

“He cannot be Thor, he must protect the mind stone,” Thor reminded him.

“Help me recruit and teach the new Avengers,” Steve blurted out in a yearning, fervent tone as he stepped towards her again. Thor looked at him, sudden understanding and interest flaring her eyes. She considered him for a tense moment, and then she ducked her head, pulling off her helmet to reveal a head of shining, golden hair. The gamine length offset her large eyes and delicate features and Steve unconsciously took another step closer, now towering over her.

“Aye,” she said softly, “I will stay and help you, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Finally_. ;D
> 
> Also, I feel like maybe I should've titled this story "Natasha Ex Machina".


	10. Accepted

“You will be at the Senate next Wednesday for the vote, is that correct, Darcy?”

“Of course, Professor Xavier. I've got about three dozen meetings set up between now and then as well. I've spoken with most of the Senators already but Ms. Grey and I decided it would be best to revisit some of the ones who are on the fence about the Registration Act; I'll talk to the hard-liners who are leaning towards yes, since they might react poorly to Jean, and she'll talk to the more centrist Senators who might benefit from having an, um, attractive face attached to the question of meta-human rights.”

“A wise plan, I think.”

“Let's hope so... Professor, if this passes at the state level, there's a very real chance they could try something like this in D.C., and... I can't say for certain which way this vote is going to go. That makes me nervous. ”

“Yes. I am sure it holds even more gravity because of the recent development in your personal life.”

“Sir?”

“My apologies Darcy, I'm afraid you have been thinking rather loudly about Sergeant Barnes this morning...”

“I, ugh, oh God, I'm so sorry, Professor. It was, um, a pretty memorable reunion.”

“Quite. As for your concern, do you believe it is the, er, meta-humans, as you call them, who will suffer if this legislation is passed?"

“I think we all will, sir. And yes that includes, you know, the Avengers, who I know can defend themselves, but also the children here at the school, who maybe can't.”

“They are under my protection.”

“And Logan's and Jean's and Scott's, I know. I know. But the U.S. government... That's a lot of force. I've been talking to Ororo and we have an idea. We want to establish an... an underground network, sort of. As a contingency. She's spoken with King T'Challa and he's willing to offer Wakanda as a safe haven for persecuted meta-humans. I know, you always tell me we should trust people to make the right decision, and I agree with you in theory, but I think Ororo's right on this one. We need a backup plan. Wakanda is a good backup plan.”

“Well... It's a prudent fail-safe to have, I suppose. Let us hope we never have to use it.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

“Should you hurt her again, I shall crush you.”

Bucky looked up from Slaughterhouse-Five, which he'd been reading on one of the communal lounge's sofas, to see a spandex-clad Thor had entered the room and was standing in front of him. The athletic gear was incongruous with her stately, dignified demeanor, and he huffed in amusement at the sight before frowning as her words sunk in.

“If I hurt her again, I'll probably ask you to,” he responded calmly. Her posture relaxed slightly, pleased with his apparently correct answer. She smiled then, and Barnes smiled back hesitantly.

“So, Thor... Steve?” he asked. Her smile grew, and she teased, “Should I hurt him, shall you crush me?” Bucky scoffed at the mental image. “I couldn't if I wanted to. Nah, Stevie can take care of his self these days. You might haveta be patient with him though, he's got a way of draggin' his feet when it comes to dames.”

Thor's smile turned secretive. “Then I suppose it is fortunate for him that I am so very mighty now.”

*

“Darcy. Someone's knocking at the door,” Bucky muttered.

“So go find out what they want,” she grumbled into the pillow.

“Mmph,” he groaned, and made no move to get out of the bed or untangle his legs from hers. When the heavy, booming knocking came again it was Darcy whose head flew up, one eye squinting open to peer at the clock beside his bed. “Good lord why is someone at your door at seven am on a Sunday?” she croaked.

Bucky didn't answer, just squeezed her left breast and nestled his face into her hair. The knocking did not stop, however, so after a minute of enjoying the feel of him against her back and hoping the interloper would give up, Darcy turned, kissed the shoulder of the arm wrapped around her, and disentangled herself from him and their blanket cocoon.

She grabbed her sports bra from where it had landed on the bedside lamp, then snatched his t-shirt from the floor, pulling them both on before shoving her legs into a pair of sweat pants hastily and hopping towards the door. “Alright, Jesus, stop knocking!” she called, rubbing her eyes, and immediately the noise ceased.

When she unlocked the door, she was surprised into speechlessness to see Thor standing in front of her, her alert posture and bright eyes an affront to her disgruntled, early-morning state.

“Darcy, good morning,” she spoke, her voice both rumbling and clarion, “Have you forgotten?”

“Uh...”

It was at that moment that Steve Rogers came barreling down the hallway, arms full of brown paper bags that teemed with groceries. He skidded to a halt behind Thor. “Hi Darcy... _Remember_? Uh, our plan? The, uh, breakfast that Bucky said _you_ wanted us to all have together this morning?” His head was tilted, his eyes boring into hers meaningfully over Thor's shoulder, and perhaps if Darcy had been more awake she might have caught the hint. She felt the heat of Bucky's body behind her and then his metal arm reached over her head to pull the door out of her hand and fully open.

“Sorry about that Stevie, we didn't forget, we just overslept a little. Come on in, I'll get some eggs going and Darcy can make some coffee, can't you Darce?”

Darcy stepped back, leaning into Bucky, as Thor and Steve passed through the doorway and headed into the kitchen. Bucky's arm pushed the door shut in front of her, and when she spun around he was looking down at her apologetically. “Sorry Darce, I told Stevie I'd help him get Thor over here so those two could socialize outside of official Avengers business. Was she always so by the books? I kinda thought she'd have made a move by now.”

Darcy shrugged, answering, “Eh, yes and no. She played by the rules sometimes, but she wasn't above breaking them in the name of scienc-- hey, no, wait we're not talking about her, we're talking about you! You couldn't have given me a heads up this was gonna be happening, I dunno, last night?”

“Last night I was distracted,” Bucky's voice rumbled from her neck, where he'd ducked his head to kiss her gently on that spot below her ear. “By this wild girl I met up with, beautiful hourglass figure, dark curls, plush kissable lips...”

“Sounds like you've got kind of a crush on her,” Darcy pouted flirtatiously.

“Can you keep a secret, doll?” he breathed into her hair, his hands squeezing her ass as he pulled her closer.

“Mm, sometimes. Depends on my mood. Try me,” she answered, running her own hands along his shoulders.

“It's a hell of a lot more than a crush,” he answered. He brushed his lips over the tender skin under her jaw, then caught her mouth with his own. 

Darcy couldn't be exactly sure which of their friends it was, although she had her suspicions, but she heard someone loudly and pointedly clear their throat from the kitchen and Bucky dropped his face to her cleavage, heaving a comically exaggerated sigh, then took a step back from her.

“C'mon, sweetheart, we'll finish that thought later. Seventy years on and I still have to help that punk talk to women,” he muttered to her as he led her towards the kitchen.

*

Steve had dragged Bucky outside to show him the newest modifications he'd made to his Harley-Davidson, and Darcy was fiddling with the opalescent tumbler in front of her as she sat awkwardly across the table from Thor. She stared at the orange light reflecting from the glass onto the tabletop, hoping it would provide some sort of ice-breaker, when Thor said in a hushed voice, “I make you uncomfortable.”

Darcy looked up and immediately felt guilty at the anguished expression on the woman's face. “I just... I don't know who you are. Are you Thor? Are you Jane? What do you remember? Do you remember all-night star-charting in Puente Antiguo? House Hunters International marathons at your mom's place? Sitting on a beach and watching the northern lights with me in Scotland? Does anything about me... matter to you, now?”

Thor winced, and looked down at her hands. When she looked back at Darcy, she spoke even more quietly, “More than ever, you matter. When I lifted Mjølnir, Darcy, I delivered unto myself all of the responsibilities that Thor has carried for the past thousand years. 'Tis a heavy burden, in truth. I have eaten a Golden Apple from the tree of the goddess Idunn. Do you know what that is?”

“Um... no.”

“It is the fruit which the Aesir eat to prolong their lives. Now that I have done this, it is my right to return to Asgard each year and partake of the harvest. I... cannot say how long I will live, Darcy. Perhaps for millennia. Perhaps eternally. It is not a decision humans are meant to bear.”

“So... I matter... how?”

“You, my mother, perhaps Erik... But in some ways _you_ most of all, because you are my dearest friend, you are all that tether me to the human woman I have been my entire life. In answer to your query, Darcy, of course I remember you. I remember how you fed me, when I was distracted by the lure of the stars and their secrets. I remember how you stayed with me, in those dark days when my heart was raw from Odinson's neglect. I remember how you held me, as my body was dying. But that body, that woman... she feels like an acquaintance to me now.

I... I cannot be the Jane Foster that I once was to you. I have the knowledge of the Aesir, not Thor's memories precisely, but those of his people. But, well, I still favor white wine spritzer and pickled herring. I still turn my face to the night sky, I still ponder the origin of cosmic rays, I still calculate the nature of wormholes as I sink into sleep each night. 

And I still love you. I will always love you. There is no hammer in any realm mighty enough to break that love.”

“W-well then,” Darcy said, overcome and unable to meet Thor's eyes, “In that case, I guess I have some catching up to do. Tell me more, more about who you are now. As Thor, or... as an Aesir. Whatever you are. But please, can I... can I still call you Jane?”

Jane's hand landed on Darcy's, and when she looked up she saw, like a double-exposed photo, both the Jane of her memories and the Jane who was destined for so much more, smiling back at her with tenderness and compassion.

“It would honor me greatly if you did, Darcy,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I really hope you've enjoyed reading any/all of this series. This was the first piece of fiction I've ever written and I had a whale of a time doing it. I may or may not write more, I don't really know right now. But I'm glad I did this at least once, and it legitimately means a **lot** to me that people took the time to read and comment.
> 
> If you've read all of this story and its prequels, I'd love to know what you think: do they hold up as one cohesive narrative? If you read just this one, does it stand on its own? Do I secretly suck at writing and I've just put way too much energy into this series to admit it to myself? :D Any and all comments are welcome and appreciated!
> 
> So after this there is one more short shortie that I'll post soon, but it's really just a few moments between Darcy, Bucky, Steve and Thor!Jane... plus some smut and the world's tiniest iota of plot.
> 
> Okay that's all from me. Thanks for reading. <3

**Author's Note:**

> "Rayleigh scattering, named after the British physicist Lord Rayleigh, is the (dominantly) elastic scattering of light or other electromagnetic radiation by particles much smaller than the wavelength of the radiation... It can occur when light travels through transparent solids and liquids, but is most prominently seen in gases. Rayleigh scattering results from the electric polarizability of the particles. The oscillating electric field of a light wave acts on the charges within a particle, causing them to move at the same frequency. The particle therefore becomes a small radiating dipole whose radiation we see as scattered light.
> 
> Rayleigh scattering of sunlight in the atmosphere causes diffuse sky radiation, which is the reason for the blue color of the sky and the yellow tone of the sun itself." (Wikipedia)


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